A Matter of Trust
by NuthatchXi
Summary: Struggling to cope with the events of "A Question of Honor", Tony has buried himself in his work with Baltimore PD. But when a Navy Chaplain is murdered, he and Gibbs cross paths once again. Will Gibbs be able to crack through Tony's barriers? Does he even want to? And will he have any of his own left intact if he tries? Preseries. Casefic. Tony!Whump
1. The Lonely Light of Morning

**Disclaimer: I don't own NCIS, or any of its characters. It sure makes for a great playground, though.**

**Chapter Warnings: This is set six months after the end of A Question of Honor. If you haven't read AQOH, you are going to get pretty darn confused, though if you want to read this first, I'm not going to hold a gun to your head. ;) **

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"_But we carry on our backs the burden_

_Time always reveals_

_In the lonely light of morning,_

_In the wound that would not heal_…"

—_Fallen_ by Sarah McLachlan

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Tony DiNozzo woke with a strangled gasp.

Too-warm air clogged his throat, like twin hands clenched tight around his windpipe. Tony sucked in oxygen like a drowning man. An endless stream of images played past his eyes, raising bile in the back of his throat. Struggling to breath through his nose, he wrenched himself free of the covers and his bedmate's suddenly cloying heat. Staggering, he stumbled down the stairs.

A glimpse of sweat-gleaming skin and bloodshot eyes in the bathroom mirror, and he was vomiting so hard his chest ached. Miserably, Tony clung to the smooth porcelain bowl.

Eventually, his stomach steadied.

Tremors wracked his limbs. Tony pulled in his arms and legs, wiping his mouth on his arm, and slumped against the wall, shuddering so hard his teeth chattered.

The green eyes fluttered closed, a brief, silent moment of defeat.

_Damn._

Tony inhaled shakily as the trembling finally subsided. It was his third nightmare in so many days, following an unprecedented weeklong reprieve. Desperation had led him to charm Linda at a bar last night, hope telling him that a cuddly form might keep the demons at bay. It had felt cheap—the romantic in him still balked at one night stands—but it had worked.

For a few hours.

At least he hadn't woken her up.

Tony pulled himself up; dragged himself over to the sink. The shock of ice-cold water to his face was unpleasant, but it jolted his brain into action. A few drips traveled down his bare chest, inciting shivers. Deadened eyes, outlined in shadows, stared back at him.

He averted his gaze.

The detective walked into the living room, gait still unsteady. Red numbers blazed through the darkness: _3:36 AM._ A button-down shirt and designer jeans lay on the sofa, tossed aside in last night's romantic diversions. He shrugged them on, and with them his shoulder holster—reluctantly left downstairs, as Linda had balked at the idea of sleeping near a gun.

He was tucking his wallet in his pocket when he heard it.

A shout—guttural and jarring, filtered through the open window.

Tony went rigid. One hand on his gun, he bolted for the door.

There it was, again—to the north, where the borderline "safe" neighborhood merged into the slums. Tony took off, the gentle July air whistling around him. It felt almost good to run, to feel the adrenaline sharpening his perception of his surroundings until this moment was the entirety of existence.

A drawn-out scream, deep and raw, splintered the night. Tony's heart pulsed in answer as he pushed his endurance to the limit. His feet pounded into the pavement, the sound muffled by his bare soles. The sound went on and on and on—

And stopped, sounding so close that he could have reached out and touched it.

Low conversation to the left, down a dimly lit street. Tony skidded to a halt, pressing his body flat against the street corner. A deep breath.

He threw himself around the corner, gun raised high.

"Baltimore PD! Hands in the air!"

Three dark figures stood, unmoving, around a crumpled body. For a fraction of a second, the grisly tableaux was motionless, the men clearly startled by the cop's abrupt appearance.

"I said, _hands in the air!_" Tony bellowed again, moving forward.

Time unfroze.

They bolted.

The urge to give chase was topped only by the heat of his fury, but duty made him halt. The odds were impossibly, maddeningly slim, but the man might still be alive. Cursing under his breath, Tony started to turn, scanning the area for any other threats.

A muffled rasp was his only warning.

Tony leapt sideways. Something glanced off his right shoulder, the blow striking with bone-jarring impact where his head had been a moment before. His arm throbbed and went completely numb, fingers losing their grip on his gun. It clattered onto the asphalt several feet away, loud as a clap of thunder. Sheer instinct brought Tony's good arm up, catching his assailment's weapon in his hand before the second blow could gain momentum.

A fist flew at his face; Tony dodged sideways. His right arm twinged, filling him with a growing sense of his own peril; the numbness in his arm wasn't a good sign, but it was keeping him moving. Time was running out. Desperate, Tony clung one handed to the weapon—some sort of wood that pricked his fingers—and dragged up his nearly unresponsive limb.

A weak, uncontrolled blow. But by some freak of chance it landed in his attacker's eye.

The man yelled. Tony dropped, hurling himself sideways into the street and out of striking range. He slid several feet, shredding cloth and skin. But it was enough. His outstretched fingers closed on the butt of his gun. Swiveling, Tony turned and fired.

The shot flew wide. The criminal took off, back of his head gleaming like yellow fire in the streetlights. _Blond_. Tony struggled sit up, firing ceaselessly, but it was too late.

He was gone.

Cursing, still holding onto his gun, Tony scrabbled with his bad arm for his cellphone. The pain was increasing by the second, but he bit the inside of his cheek and kept his fingers going. His eyes locked on a nearby street sign.

_Pleasepleaseplease..._

A groggy voice. "DiNozzo, it's three in the morning."

"Adam," Tony panted, "Get a squad and an ambulance to the corner of Furley and Sinclair Greens Street, ASAP. A man's been attacked; I think he's dead. The killers ran; one of them attacked me, but he got away."

"What the hell—"

"Not the time," Tony snapped, sweat building on his forehead. "And get your ass over here!"

He slammed the phone shut. The numbness was almost completely gone, replaced with a growing agony that made his stomach churn. If he had to guess, the shoulder was dislocated, but he didn't have time to check, and less time to do anything about it.

_Stupid. Stupid, stupid!_

Biting his lip, Tony stood, swallowing hard. Gun still raised, he stumbled towards the prone body, eyes and ears searching madly for any sign of movement.

Nothing.

He crumpled to his knees just inches away from the body. A man, Tony registered distantly, in his fifties or sixties, jaw and forehead black with bruises.

Sinking his teeth into his own cheek even harder than before, the detective reached out his right hand and felt the man's pulse.

Tony bowed his head. Slowly, he drew back his fingers, and hugged his throbbing arm to his body.

The faraway wail of sirens was the only sound left in the darkness.

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Chapter Notes: Well, it's me already. :D Surprise! Quite short; just think of it as a prologue, or the short little intro before the NCIS song. ;) The other chapters should be my typical length. Hope you enjoyed!


	2. The Bridges You Burned Down

Chapter Warnings: None

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"_I remember when you said that life was hard on you_

_And I remember when I watched you come undone again_

_And I still feel now all the damage left inside_

_All the walls that you built up,_

_And all the bridges you burnt down_…"

—_Come to Me_, by Megan McCauley

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With an ominously slick sound, the steadily growing stack of paperwork slipped off the desk altogether.

Gibbs lunged forward, too late. The last papers fluttered leisurely in the air, catching a few final puffs off wind, before settling smugly some four feet away from his desk.

Blackadder sat unmoving, jaw dropped in abject horror, and gaped at him from across the bullpen.

Waiting for the explosion.

Gibbs stared at the carnage in more dignified disbelief, his temples pounding.

This morning was not going his way at all.

"I've got to go talk to Abby," he managed finally, keeping the lid on his temper with great force of will.

Blackadder gestured inarticulately at the mess. "Do—do you want me to—"

A sardonic look, thrown over the agent's retreating shoulder, seared her mid-speech.

"I—yes, sir. That is, Boss. I mean—I'll just start tidying up right this minute, sir—"

The elevator door slammed shut before she could scramble out of her seat.

Gibbs huffed, rolling his shoulders as the elevator shuddered on its way. An entire week without a case. If Gibbs didn't have obvious problems with being happy about the death of navy men, he'd be praying for a nice triple murder to break up the frustrating monotony of trying to figure out how to replace Burley.

And Abby—well. She was doing much better now, Gibbs conceded, his ears suddenly assaulted with the blare of heavy metal as he stepped out of the elevator. After her father's death, she'd drooped around for months, a gothic shadow with tragic eyes, and it had been all Gibbs could do drag her back to equilibrium.

"Gibbs!" Abby's smile was bright enough to temporarily wipe his mind clear both of worry for her, and the gloomy remembrance of personnel files still awaiting his perusal upstairs.

"Hey, Abs." A kiss, pressed against her shiny black hair. She leaned her head against his shoulder, a casual half-hug, then bounced sideways—a peculiar, skipping half-jump.

"See my boots?"

Gibbs blinked, taken aback in spite of himself.

"Moon shoes, Abs?"

She hopped gleefully, red and black plaid skirt fluttering. "Yup! I went shopping with Sister Rosita."

_Rnnng._

His cellphone pealed, sparing Gibbs the necessity of wondering what part of that, precisely, was meant to constitute an explanation. He held up a finger, a wordless request for silence. Pouting, Abby pressed a button on her stereo.

The sudden quiet made his ears roar.

He shook his head to clear it. "Yeah. Gibbs."

At the rapid-fire words, his mood sank and lifted simultaneously.

"Yes, sir."

Gibbs flipped the phone shut, and met Abby's pale green, inquisitive eyes. "Baltimore cop witnessed the murder of Navy Chaplain Pete Druckenbrod this morning."

Her lips drooped just slightly—not the sulky pout of a moment before, but the quiver of neediness. Since her father had finally succumbed to his illness some weeks after Gibbs's return from the entire Macaluso debacle, the forensic scientist had been...clingy, to say the least. In his most exasperated moments, Gibbs likened her response to that of a puppy first experiencing the twinges of separation anxiety, but that wasn't fair. Given her loss, and his particular line of work, if she feared that he might vanish from her life as suddenly as her dad had...

Well, Gibbs knew better than anyone how quickly everything that mattered could be snatched away.

The special agent reached out to stroke her hair. She leaned into the callused fingers, a genuine smile spreading across her face—absorbing the affection as effortlessly as she always did, with her concrete, almost child-like expectation of love given, love returned. Loss had shaken her, but the bubbly Goth still reached out to humanity with the expectation that optimism would be answered, and that life would give her everything she deserved.

Such trust. Trust absolute, trust that had never truly been abused. As always, he was reminded of how Kelly used to look at him, with her simple love shining on every inch of her face. Gibbs's stomach flipped, tenderness mingling with a devastation that had only dulled, not faded, with time. Blue eyes, not unlike his own, stared at him from memory.

Grief was bitter, always.

But at least, for a little while, she'd known what it was to be unconditionally loved. He knew from heartbreaking experience in the field that far too few children could say the same.

Without warning, the phantom blue eyes vanished, replaced by a familiar deep green gaze in his mind's eye.

Disturbed, Gibbs stepped away, responding to Abby's farewell wave with a distracted one of his own.

_Why_ had DiNozzo's face sprung to mind just then? It wouldn't have been altogether strange to think of the kid, given the location of the dead chaplain. The agent's contacts had reported months ago that DiNozzo had joined up with Baltimore homicide. But thinking of Tony when caught in a tangle of parental reflections and regrets...

It was absolutely ridiculous.

Frustrated, the ex-marine jammed his thumb into the elevator button. Just because the detective bore every mark of someone whose trust had been dashed again and again, didn't make his wellbeing the Gibbs's responsibility. Six months, and DiNozzo still hadn't even bothered respond to the agent's hastily penned note. Clearly, he was fine. Probably flourishing, and simply too busy to pay the ill-judged, impulsive message any noticed.

There was no reason to be frustrated by the silence. Or disappointed. And he wasn't.

Mouth tightening grimly, Gibbs tilted his head back just slightly, until it hit with a weighty _thud_ against the elevator wall.

And he definitely—_definitely—_wasn't worried.

At all.

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Outside the car, the early morning heat was sweltering, sinking deep underneath Gibbs's collar to moisten his neck. Across the street, obscured by a shimmering wave of humidity, police tape looped off the entire sidewalk. A crowd milled around, a mix of local LEOs bustling back and forth, and fascinated civilians barely keeping an appropriate distance from the crime scene.

Gibbs swung the back door open before Blackadder could—vestiges of chivalry—and directed her towards the crime scene with a simple jerk of his chin. "Photos." Turning back, the agent noted the unusually prompt arrival of the medical van with approval. He unzipped his NCIS jacket impatiently, tossing it into the backseat of his car, and turned back to survey the scene.

A movement different from the rest caught his eyes.

A slim figure, clad in tattered clothes, stood against the shop windows, just outside the confines police tape. Thanks to the blinding July sun and its requisite jet-black shadows, the face was hidden. He was arguing with a cop, his rapid hand motions almost lethal in their quickness—and oddly familiar.

Gibbs's gut jolted in realization seconds before stunned recognition hit.

_I'll be damned. _

A slow, sideways grin spread across his face.

DiNozzo?

The man turned his head, and a beam of sunlight lit upon a smear of red, like grisly war paint, highlighting his high cheekbones. He looked rather different from the last time they'd crossed paths—hair cropped shorter, casual in jeans and shirt instead of mob-inspired suits.

But somehow, Gibbs thought he looked exactly the same.

Suddenly, the agent felt like he really hadn't been surprised, at all—that he had, in fact, been on some level expecting this from the very first moment of the case—

"You know the man?"

The medical examiner's shrewd voice broke into his musings in a way the quiet footsteps hadn't.

Ducky.

Were it Blackadder, the agent wouldn't have deigned to answer—but then, she had no such temerity, and Ducky's powers of observation were legendary in any case. Gibbs had long since given up on the comfortable illusion of his own opacity. The grin faded in to a wry smirk. "Yeah. DiNozzo."

"_The _DiNozzo? The one you helped with an undercover operation in December?" Surprise lifted Ducky's voice.

"That's the one."

"Ah. The young man you never talk about, despite the fact that you called a Baltimore hospital at least ten times during the first week of your return to work, simply to check on a mystery patient's condition."

Gibbs _glared_.

Regrettably, Ducky was as thoroughly impervious to such expressions as his namesake was to a gentle rain. "Oh, this _shall _be interesting," he countered cheerfully, stepping forward. "Now, let us see what secrets the dead have to tell."

Gibbs strode past him, shaking his head.

Upon their approach, the argument was still in full force, Tony's posture still aggressive. "—no, I'm not going to surrender the case—"

"Detective."

DiNozzo stopped mid-speech and mid gesture at the even greeting, eyes widening almost comically. He turned his head cautiously.

And positively beamed, the characteristic smile blazing across his face, lighting-quick and lightning-bright.

"Special Agent Gibbs!"

"DiNozzo," Gibbs returned, mouth crooking in greeting. Something in his chest—tangled and unpleasant—dissolved abruptly at the warm greeting.

"How do you two know each other?" The man Tony had been arguing with, an ordinary-looking fellow equipped with a bushy beard, glanced between them quizzically.

Almost as though on some sort of cue, DiNozzo's smile faded. "Give us a moment, Adam."

Reluctantly, the other man did, darting curious glances over his shoulder.

"Well, this is a heck of a coincidence." As quickly as the last had vanished, another grin appeared—this one wide, gleaming, and insanely charming.

And as utterly fake to Gibbs's eagle eye as it was shatterproof. Abruptly, the agent registered the odd way in which DiNozzo was standing—the right arm clutched tight to his side, the body braced as though for a blow. In conjunction with the streak of blood, and the damaged shirt, it told an unpleasant story.

Gibbs suppressed a frown, more concerned than he was inclined to admit.

What exactly had happened here?

"No such thing as coincidences."

DiNozzo opened his mouth to reply, eyebrows raised with what looked like glee, but Gibbs cut him off hurriedly, afraid the words would match the expression. "You the cop that found the body and saw the attackers?"

The detective grimaced, professional once more. "Yeah. I heard shouts—at about 3:30—so I grabbed my gun and tried to find where they were coming from. I came to that corner just as the screaming stopped, and I saw three men standing by the body. I tried to get them to drop their weapons, but they ran. That was when I got attacked. I must have missed a guy, because came at me from behind, and hit my shoulder with something—like a club or a baseball bat. I got away, and shot at him, but the bullet didn't connect. He ran. I called for backup."

There were several peculiarities to that story, not least of which was the fact that DiNozzo was barefoot, but otherwise completely—even stylishly—dressed. But they could get to the details later; Tony had likely left them out as inessential. "Get checked out?" Gibbs indicated his injuries with a nod.

DiNozzo shifted his feet in place. "No." A pause, then—"I figure I've been in enough hospitals lately."

It was the first acknowledgement, guarded or otherwise, of everything that had happened since their final conversation in a Philadelphia car an eternity ago. Something shifted in the air between them, becoming more and less awkward at once.

"How's Maria?" Gibbs queried softly, following some instinct.

An unwise one, as it turned out.

Tony stiffened, spine gone rigid. He laughed, the sound loud and overly emphatic. "Oh. Well. Docs thought there might be some new brain activity, but it turns out, nooo. Brain's still mush. Porridge. Yup, she's _pret_-ty much a vegetable—"

Without thinking, Gibbs reached up to headslap him.

A hard block jolted his arm aside just as his fingers brushed the tips of Tony's hair. Green eyes scorched the scant space between them, burning with something dark and potent and coiled to strike. "You don't get to hit me," Tony breathed. This close, disconcertingly deep shadows underscored his eye sockets. "Got that?"

With a sudden wrench, DiNozzo tore away, and took off walking in the opposite direction—stopping only to scold a couple of gaping teenagers for leaning too near the caution tape. From the back, the source of the smeared blood on his face was obvious—a badly skinned shoulder, glistening red against the tattered remains of the kid's shirt.

_Well, hell._

Chagrin settled in the agent's chest.

What had possessed him? The younger man had just been attacked, was clearly still on edge. Yet—something about the speech had slipped under Gibbs's skin and lodged there. The shocking callousness of DiNozzo's words? The violent undercurrent of guilt underneath the barely cloaked pain?

The way Tony himself had seemed to flinch at each casual word, but inflicted them anyway?

"Well, that was scarcely wise, or necessary."

It was one thing to emphatically agree with the ME's mild disapproval; quite another to admit the fact out loud. Gibbs settled for a calm, "Your job's to inspect the dead, not the living, Duck."

"Au contraire; the living can often help give voice to the departed, if by no other means than by providing insight into our uniquely human condition. What's more, as I'm sure you are well aware, I am more than capable of multitasking." Ducky paused, surveying the team leader through shrewd, bespectacled eyes. "He was happy to see you, Jethro."

"Yeah," Gibbs scoffed, watching Blackadder talk with the bearded cop. "For about five seconds."

"Oh, a good deal longer than that; he simply wished to hide it. Do be careful with him, Jethro. The young man is clearly hurting. Why, I can't hope to answer fully at this point, though I do wonder if you may have an inkling."

Gibbs ignored that. "How about answering why our chaplain is dead."

Ducky rose to his feet, clutching his medical bag. "Well, I will have to get him back to headquarters before I can answer with utter certainty, but the cause of death seems plain—bludgeoning, with some sort of blunt object. Given the shape and the depth of the wounds, I would wager that your murder weapon may indeed be something in the realm of a baseball bat, which would corroborate young DiNozzo's story. As does the estimated time of death."

A clipped voice sounded from Gibbs's right.

"The guy who attacked me."

Tony had returned, as abruptly as he'd stormed off. He was frowning still, and fidgeting agitatedly, little furrows pinching his eyebrows. "He was blond. Golden color. Kind of had a pointy nose. I punched him in the face, so he probably has a black eye. That's all I know."

Curiosity rose. Punched him in the face? Clearly, a wealth of information lay behind the simple declaration of 'I got away', but instinct—or the defensiveness still lurking in Tony's eyes—stopped him from probing sooner. For the moment. "Good to know."

"I want in on the case," Tony demanded aggressively, almost as though the mild statement had angered him further. His eyes still shot sparks. "One of the men attacked me, which makes it Baltimore jurisdiction. I'm not going to let you—"

"Okay," Gibbs interrupted smoothly. "Joint investigation."

Tony's jaw dropped comically. A second later, he rallied. "That's it."

An intensely skeptical question, phrased as a statement.

Gibbs hid a smile.

Well, DiNozzo was hardly an idiot.

"Two conditions," the agent allowed. "One, my lead."

The green eyes flashed, but Tony nodded grudgingly. "And?"

"Go sit down. We'll finish processing the scene. And when we're back at NCIS headquarters, you let my ME check out your injuries."

The angry edge vanished completely from the detective's expression, replaced by bafflement. "I—what?"

"Dr. Mallard, NCIS's finest medical examiner. Meet Detective Anthony DiNozzo."

"Pleasure, my dear boy," Ducky replied. "You'll excuse me if I don't shake your hand, I hope. I'm afraid little pieces of our dear chaplain may have adhered to my glove." He chuckled broadly at his own joke, stepping outside the caution tape.

"_That's_ your condition? You want your medical examiner to poke at me like I'm one of his corpses?"

Incredulousness underscored every syllable.

"Now, really, Detective," Ducky chided. "I'm perfectly qualified. You needn't worry. I assure you, the difference between the living and the dead is not so acute as all _that_." He strolled off, whistling cheerfully.

DiNozzo actually took a step backwards. "No offense, Special Agent, but that was seriously creepy," he pointed out fervently.

Behind them, Ducky's most recent assistant—whatever the hell his name was—was helping to lift Thomas's body, sending waves of stench through the air. Good. If DiNozzo was in as much pain as the faint lines of around his youthful mouth indicated...the sooner they got to NCIS, the better.

"Always the hospital," Gibbs suggested helpfully.

A scowl almost made it onto Tony's face.

Almost.

"The dead-people doctor sounds fan-_tas_-tic," the younger man assured him hastily, grinning a bit nervously. "It's just that I've got this thing about scalpels. And getting confused for dead bodies. And I'm feeling just fine—never better, really—and—_uhm_." He'd caught Gibbs's expression, finally. "But it never hurts to get a doctor's opinion, right? I'm just going to go—sit, like you said."

Gibbs smirked as DiNozzo beat a hasty retreat. Privately, he was willing to admit that he was pleased by the brief exchange. As always, the younger man's grudges were short-lived. It seemed the ill-timed headslap had blown over—at least for the moment.

His smile faded as the detective perched gingerly on the edge of the sidewalk, head lowered.

Still the same Tony.

But he didn't need Ducky's pointers to know that things were far from well.

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Author's note: Thank you all so much for all of your reviews on the "prologue"! The start of the semester ate up most of my reply time, but I **delighted** in each one. I also elected to spend my Saturday night writing instead of doing anything more exciting—and even for a non-partier like me, that's a little bit lame—so in light of that sacrifice, hopefully you can forgive me for the oversight in review-responses. :D

Also, I realized belatedly that I really shouldn't have put in Blackadder in _A Question of Honor_; because how then would Tony be the senior agent in the Jag episodes? But, oh, well—might as well roll with it. This is all AU now, anyway.

_**Now...those AQOH Review Awards I promised!**_

**The "**_**100% Rock Award**_**", presented to the reviewer with the greatest number of reviews:** Azamiko, with a near-perfect record of 18 out of 20.

_**Gold Loyalty Award**_**, presented to any reviewer with 15 to 19 reviews:** Maz101, NickTonyK

_**Silver Loyalty Award**_**, presented to any reviewer with 10 to 14 reviews**: newgal, peanutmeg, whashaza, Ann, tiffaroolou, godsdaughter77, Kateri1, fredcymraes

_**Bronze Loyalty Award**_**, presented to any reviewer with 5 to 9 reviews: **ShadowWolfDagger, katesari, SpanishGirl, Long Live BRUCAS, angelscatie, Madances, Hermione's Shadow, tonyfan31970, cha'90, aloha94, dianateo, BnBfanatic, Julie250, KelKo, Tragedy of Fenwick, Net Sparrow, vanishingp2000

_**The "Wildcard" award,**_** for the reviewer that influenced the plot most:** Maz101, whose comment on the first chapter, "I'm already worried about Steve" sparked inspiration on what was originally intended as a one-time character.

"_**Very**__**Special Agent Award**_**", for the review that made me laugh the most:** Awarded to achillies-eel, whose lovely review for chapter 12 included the hilariously incongruent declaration of, "And I love [...] the part where they HAVE SEX ALREADY! About time, Tony boy." I laughed so hard. Frankly, I have a feeling Tony would rather agree with you.

"_**The Brilliant Chatterbox Award",**_** for the longest review:** tiffaroolou, with her longest review clocking in at 350 words. As a very close runner-up, StarvingScriptWriter, with 269 words.

_**The Abby Scuito Award**_**, for the most enthusiastic review (**_**very**_** difficult to judge, incidentally): **Tragedy of Fenwick

_**Full Circle Award,**_** awarded to all reviewers who replied on both the first and/or second chapter,**_** and**_** the last or second to last chapter: **Maz101, NickTonyK, Smooth Doggie, Azamiko 

_**Lend a Hand Award**_**:** tiffaroolou, Victoria LeRoux , and ncis slythindor, for offering to proofread a chapter for me, even though I never actually took anyone up on the offer

And because quality is more important than quantity...

I originally intended to create an award that would single out those of you who took the time to write particularly detailed, encouraging, excited, inspiring, admiring reviews, messages and comments. But I quickly hit up against a major problem—there were simply too many of you that fit the criteria. It would get ridiculous trying to list you all. So, for all of you, even if your name didn't manage to fit neatly in one of the other categories (quite a number of them did)...even if you only reviewed once or twice...if you took a moment to make a review special, thank you! In fact...if you took the time to write a review at all...thank you!


	3. The Scars That Silence Carved

Chapter Warnings: Language

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"_So don't turn away now_

_I am turning in revolution_

_These are the scars _

_That silence carved_

_On me..."_

—_Gravity_ by Vienna Teng

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He couldn't find his balance.

Tony rested his left forearm on his knees, tucking his right arm close to his chest. The pain in his shoulder had eased considerably as the hours passed by, but the throbbing was still a warning that he didn't care to ignore. Twisting carefully in place, Tony looked back almost wistfully toward the crime scene.

The familiar sight of his partner, calmly swapping information with other LEOs, should have been calming, but instead Tony's stomach roiled with nerves. Because this time, Adam wasn't just talking to another a police officer—he was talking to Gibbs, and he could be saying _anything _right now, good-naturedly answering dozens of carefully constructed questions that the Special Agent asked him about his partner...

_Stop it._ Tony bit down the surge of adrenaline-laced anxiety for what felt like the hundredth time, and looked away. Adam was agreeable, but he understood privacy, and what little he knew of Tony's personal life was hardly relevant to the case, anyway. It would be fine. _Fine._

Tony slowed his breathing purposefully, forcing himself to think about the case. Three attackers, one man armed with a gun. Blond—and there'd been something piercing about the eyes. What if he was forgetting something, some small detail...?

...And what was the _matter _with him? Tony's leg jiggled up and down in a jerky rhythm, in unconscious tandem with his tumultuous thoughts. He'd been bouncing around like a ping-pong ball all morning—ricocheting off emotional walls and corners with no sign of stopping.

It wasn't like this was his first crime scene since he'd started working in Baltimore. It was hardly the most gruesome, either. And yes, he'd been attacked, but he was alive, and given his track record, he really should be used to such things by now. So why did he feel like someone had taken him apart and Picasso had put him back together?

Tony wasn't sure, but one thing was for certain—he didn't need Special Agent Gibbs butting in and acting like he owned him.

Frowning, the detective looked over his shoulder again. Gibbs was talking to his agent now, a young woman with gloriously curly red hair. Momentarily captivated, Tony let her beauty chase away his worries. She'd be off limits during the case, but after? He could just imagine her underneath him, panting raggedly, cheeks flushed and lips swollen...

Something squirming and uncomfortable flickered in his chest, ending the thought. It felt like shame. What was he doing? He'd always liked the ladies, but this—the pulsing, unromantic, almost savage _need_ for carnal distraction—this was something else altogether.

It was beginning to worry him.

Tony diverted his gaze, still watching the interaction out of the corner of his eye, but erasing the earlier heated visuals from his mind.

Gibbs said something, his face inscrutable as usual. But it must have been unwelcome, because the woman's body language suddenly stiffened. She whipped her head around to stare in Tony's direction, face completely unsmiling. He pretended not to notice, still watching surreptitiously. As far as the detective could tell, she had no verbal response to her boss, but Tony didn't need one to know what she was thinking.

The mutinous question was scrawled all over her face.

_Why are we working with him?_

Not exactly a warm welcome, though that didn't matter; he could charm her later, if he wanted to. But a supremely good question.

Why in the world _had _Gibbs conceded so quickly? Tony had made play for the case because he'd wanted it—and maybe because he'd been in the mood for a fight—not because he thought he had a leg (even a small, crippled leg) to stand on in claiming it.

It was almost as though Gibbs had _preferred _to work with him.

"Can't blame you on this one, Tony. She's something else."

Adam's deep voice jolted him from his thoughts.

Tony blinked. "Not really my type," he countered, on the defensive without reason—and wondered at the easy lie.

"Really." His partner sounded extremely doubtful. "Well, that's good, because I think you've got a visitor."

"Tony!"

Half blinded by the sun, the detective squinted up the sidewalk. The sun glinted off of ash-brown hair liberally threaded with gold. A curvaceous figure in a pale blue suit waved frantically.

Oh, crap.

Somewhere, someone was laughing at him—and laughing hard.

Linda, of all people.

Tony got to his feet, mind racing, as he tried to formulate a response that wasn't '_damnit, I was really hoping never to see you again' _but still managed to communicate something in realm of '_I was really hoping never to see you again'_.

As fate would have it, he was spared the necessity of conjuring up such a miracle phrase. Linda ran forward, teetering on sky-high heels, a rom-com heroine at the climax of her love story—and hurled her arms around his neck.

Pain shot through his shoulder, an arrow of white heat. The detective grit his teeth, biting back an oath. "Injured...here."

She gasped, pulling back only slightly. "Oh, my! Oh, there's blood on your face! See, I was driving by on my way to work, and then I saw _you—_so I pulled over, and then the man in the beard over there said that you'd found the body, and you'd almost _died_—"

A few feet away, his partner was snickering.

Tony gave Adam a filthy look. "That's not quite—"

It wasn't often that Tony encountered someone able to talk him into the ground, but last night's fling was armed with a killer tongue. "—And I just thought that was so heroic!" She giggled—a bubbly, high-pitched sound. "How soon do you think you'll catch the killer? Did you see his face? Or _her _face, I guess—that would be so terrifying!"

"Well, that's actually classi—"

"But I guess it happens, right? I mean, all the cop shows say it does—I just have trouble believing it. I mean, you just wouldn't expect it, would you? Well, I wouldn't, but then, I believe stupid things all the time—" She laughed again, a little self-consciously this time.

Whoever had attacked him, Tony thought desperately, owed him a _hell _of lot.

"Hey—DiNozzo! Enough canoodling with your girlfriend. Time to go."

The crisp, unexpected order was enough to loosen even Linda's stranglehold. Tony pried himself free, feeling suddenly rather like tackling Gibbs in a hug himself. "You're the boss," he answered hurriedly, straightening his shirt one-handed, and stepping into the passenger seat of the NCIS sedan. "Some other time, Linda."

"Are you going to call me?" She called out plaintively.

But the car's door had already slammed shut.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

The drive to NCIS was a silent, nail-biting affair. The female agent—Gibbs had called her Blackadder, but never bothered to introduce her properly—seethed with stony, low-burning dislike from the back seat.

Tony felt rather put upon. So maybe he'd stared at her chest a bit too long—but only because she'd looked him up and down when he'd introduced himself from the front seat, and _sniffed_.

Well, mostly because.

She _did_ fill out her shirt awfully nicely.

Okay, he felt a little bad about that now. Not that there was much room in his head for regret, with his life flashing before his eyes in repeated snatches. The car careened around a street corner, making no attempt to regard stop signs or oncoming traffic. A truck blared its horn, a portent of doom, and Tony screwed his eyes shut against his oncoming demise.

Surprisingly, the impact never came, but the momentum of the turn hurled him sideways, slamming him into the door of the car. Tony couldn't contain a hiss of pain.

Almost instantly, the car slowed to a pace that an average person would have merely considered "speeding."

Tony turned his head, just in time to catch a flicker of pale blue eyes.

Surprise sparked, mingled with something that felt like gratitude. Gibbs had actually adjusted his driving, for him? Oddly, a small part of Tony—the reactive, irrational corner of him that fought for prominence so often these days—wanted to be annoyed, to snap that he could damn well handle whatever Gibbs threw at him, even something as stupid as erratic driving.

The rest of him was just glad that he might actually not die today.

So he settled for a compromise, and wondered when he'd decided suicide by cop was a good option—because antagonizing a driving Gibbs was definitely tantamount to a death wish.

"You know, this reminds me of _Gone In Sixty Seconds_. 1974. H.B. Halicki—"

Blackadder scoffed from the back seat. "That was an awful movie."

Well. So the ice queen _did_ make noise.

"Terrible," Tony agreed cheerfully. "But it did have a forty-minute chase scene in which over one hundred cars were wrecked."

It wasn't a glare, precisely, but it was definitely the most intense expression that Gibbs had graced him with all day.

Tony ignored the voice in his head that told him to shut up while he was still breathing. "Come to think of it, it actually reminds me more of the sequel. They tried a stunt so dangerous that Halicki died during filming—"

"Look like I'm planning on dying today, DiNozzo?"

The look _still_ wasn't a glare. It was, like the tone of the words, altogether indecipherable. Disconcerted, Tony found himself backtracking. "...No, not at all."

The scenery sped past. His shoulder throbbed.

He fidgeted, fitfully.

"Actually, you look like you're planning on living to a ripe old age. You're very well-preserved."

A strangled sound from the backseat, roughly approximate to that of a dying chicken—a laugh, or a gasp. Tony wasn't sure which.

Okay, that hadn't exactly been backtracking, but—

Whoa. That _was _a glare.

"Halicki died because he was hit by a telephone pole," Gibbs growled. "If I have to put this car into one to get you to shut up, I will."

He couldn't be serious.

Tony eyed the older man's stony expression with apprehension, trying to gauge what was going on behind it.

_Could he?_

Self-preservation won out over curiosity. Tony sank back in his seat, feeling tacky moisture pressing against his borrowed jacket. Inwardly, he grimaced. Gibbs had tossed him the wrap, probably to prevent the blood from the younger man's scraped shoulder from staining the seat of the car. But it would still have to be washed before it was fit to be worn again. Admittedly, the jacket was black, so any damage to the fabric wouldn't be permanent.

Yet, he still couldn't quite suppress a pointless sense of guilt.

Suddenly drained, Tony stared at unseeingly at the road ahead. His skin ached from exhaustion. Three hours of sleep heading into an investigation wasn't much, even for him. Maybe he should try to catch some sleep now. Slowly, the detective let his eyes drift close.

The car's rhythm was steady, the hum of the engine almost comforting. Drowsily, Tony lowered his head, and let the waves of fatigue pass through him. His breathing slowed.

Safe. Comfortable. He'd napped in cars like these hundreds of times before, snatching moments of rest when a case was too hot to justify stopping.

Tony shifted, restless.

Even with fatigue weighing down his lids, sleep still hovered just out of reach. Frustrated, the detective heaved a sigh, and tried counting his breaths.

_One...two. One...two. One... _

A rustle of fabric, to his left.

_No!_

Tony's eyes flew open, his body going taut as a bowstring as images flashed across his vision. To his intense embarrassment, his breathing quickened, growing shallow. Swearing mentally, Tony dragged himself upright, concentrating on getting his heart rate under control, and stared determinedly out the window.

He had no desire to see Gibbs's reaction.

_Shit. _

He'd actually regressed. _Damn it!_ He'd fought tooth and nail for the progress he'd made in the last six months, _battled _to override the way everything in him had screamed outagainst even the gentlest of touch. Tony had slammed every memory into submission before it could consume him—forced himself to train with knives until the touch of cool steel no longer made him shake—burned every physical trace of Antonio Florentino in a frigid mid-February bonfire that set his new neighbors to gossiping.

Philadelphia may have claimed the realm of dreams, but had no business in the daylight hours.

Tony had worked far too hard for Gibbs to stroll in and blur the borderlines of his life.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Gibbs pulled to a gradual stop in the NCIS parking lot. The early afternoon sunlight glinted off of every surface, sending jets of light to sear vision.

DiNozzo didn't even blink.

In an eerie display of stillness—and what the agent told himself was a welcome respite from chatter—Tony had done nothing but gaze out the window since his inexplicable, miniature panic attack half an hour ago.

Gibbs regarded the younger man with hooded eyes, unhooking his own seatbelt slowly.

Had the morning's events effected him that badly?

Abruptly, DiNozzo's chair jolted forward.

Blackadder retracted her foot, smirking. "Welcome to NCIS," she mocked, swinging out of the car.

The beginnings of a head-slap tingled in Gibbs's fingertips. Granted, Blackadder had settled on bitchiness to protest the joint investigation, and DiNozzo had retaliated by being an ass, so continued bickering was inevitable. But Gibbs had caught the split second of real pain when the kick to his seat jolted his shoulder.

"Aw, Blackie." That grin could charm the fish from the seas, if for some reason the kid had use of them. Tony slammed the car door, and leaned against it languidly. "Just how welcome are you going to make me?"

Of course, in a battle of juvenility, DiNozzo was hardly ill equipped.

Shaking his head, Gibbs beckoned to them both. "Blackadder, start on Druckenbrod's background. DiNozzo, with me."

Blackadder scowled, probably because he'd cut off whatever retaliatory remark she'd had locked and loaded, but did as she was bid. After a moment's hesitation, Tony followed suit.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Both men were silent as they walked through headquarters—Gibbs, because if someone wanted a tour guide, they could damn well hire a service, and DiNozzo for reasons best known to himself. Maybe he just liked to defy expectations.

Gibbs rather suspected it was more than that. But as much as he hated to admit it, he wasn't sure how to handle a DiNozzo who took refuge in quiet rather than in a variety show of evasive blathering.

It was time to pull out the big guns.

Smirking to himself, Gibbs led Tony into autopsy.

"Hi, Duck. Take a look at DiNozzo?"

The younger man's form stiffened.

"Ah, hello, Jethro. Of course." Ducky replaced his scalpel and stripped off his gloves, giving DiNozzo a kindly smile. "My dear Anthony, why don't you just take a seat on the table over there, and I'll be right with you."

"We're doing this _here_?" Actual speech, almost startling after the long silence. "In autopsy? With the dead guy right over there?" Tony's voice rose an octave on the last note.

"Well, naturally. It's really a wonderful surface for examinations. Of course, if you don't like the accommodations, there's a hospital just down the road." Ducky sounded almost affronted as he scrubbed his hands, but Gibbs knew him well enough to look for the twinkle in his eye.

A hefty sigh. "Dead people it is." Defeated, the younger man moved to the table, and stopped, eyeing it. As Gibbs watched, curious, he hoisted himself up with both arms, face expressionless.

Almost.

The merest flicker of a grimace, but enough to let the agent know exactly how excruciating that maneuver had been.

Suddenly infuriated by this display of bravado, Gibbs clenched his teeth hard enough to hurt. Did DiNozzo think he was indestructible?

Tony's eyes flickered upward. Catching Gibbs's gaze, the younger man flushed.

It did nothing to improve the agent's temper.

"Now, I'll need you to remove your top, of course."

"Right." Tony wavered again, lifting tentative green eyes up to the ex-marine's face. Abruptly, his jaw set. Gaze dropping, he wrestled out of Gibbs's jacket with awkward jerks, wincing repeatedly. Dumping the fabric next to him, he unbuttoned his shirt with rigid fingers, button by button. Taking a deep breath, the detective tried ineffectually to shrug out of his shirt.

_Enough._

Striding forward, Gibbs gripped the detective around the wrist, a silent command. _Stop_. DiNozzo's pulse sped under his fingers; he tugged, but Gibbs didn't let go. The agent waited, so far within Tony's personal space that he could feel his body heat rising in waves.

The silent standoff last only a second or two. Tony slumped. Gibbs let go. Still silent, the older man helped him pull off the shirt, easing it over the injured shoulder, and then dumped it on the table. It was ruined, shredded in several spots, and smeared with blood.

Tony stayed hunched, avoiding his eyes, looking for all world like a teenager who'd been beaten up at school. Young.

Ashamed.

Anger fading, Gibbs stepped backwards.

Ducky, with his usual tact in such situations, made no comment on the exchange. Gibbs noticed the way the man moved closer, telegraphing his motions so DiNozzo could spot them.

A twinge of guilt mingled with the formless frustration.

"Well, that certainly looks painful." Ducky clicked his tongue, gently running his fingers over the injured shoulder. Reddish-purple bruising, fading out to yellow, enshrouded the entire area. "It isn't dislocated, however."

"Shouldn't we check up on the case?" Tony ventured. "I mean, Blackadder might have found something. We don't want to lose time."

By _we _he meant _you_, and Gibbs would have ignored the absurdly obvious ploy, if not for the curious tone of the comment. It was nearly a plea, but somehow almost resigned—the voice of someone fully expecting to be ignored, yet still hoping against hope for a reprieve.

"Jethro," Ducky broke in smoothly, "I do believe I left my stethoscope in my office. Would you be so kind as to fetch it for me? I'm not sure quite where I put it...I am getting terribly absentminded these days...you might have to look a bit." The message in the medical examiner's eyes was clear.

In spite of everything, Gibbs hid a smile. They'd done this maneuver before.

"Sure, Duck."

The agent retreated to the office, out of sight.

But not out of earshot.

"Now, try to lift that shoulder for me...good. Your mobility doesn't seem to be effected. Now, between normal and unbearable, how much did that hurt?"

Silence.

"Shrugging using one shoulder is not a satisfactory answer," Ducky's chided, a little testy, "but I suppose it does communicate a revealing disinclination to move this one. Clearly, the muscling is badly bruised, but nothing seems to be broken. I'll give you some painkillers that should help, but you're not to overuse the shoulder, do you understand me?"

An incoherent noise—dissent or assent, Gibbs couldn't tell. "I don't do painkillers."

"Why ever not? Some absurd masochistic urge? Turn a little, I need to clean these scrapes."

"Ah—the last time I took them, I recited half of Top Gun to my chief of police and asked my partner if he knew that his wife had cheated on him."

"Dear me." Ducky sounded amused. "Did he?"

"Well, considering that he'd told me about it the day before, I think he had an inkling, yeah. He just wasn't quite so keen on me announcing it to the entire squad room."

"Ah. That is regrettable. Well, presumably no one here knows your partner, so you can shout your news from the rooftops should you be overcome by the urge. Now, turn the other way—"

Humor colored Tony's voice. "And if I recite entire movies to Gibbs?"

Tucked away in his office, the agent almost snorted.

"No worries, dear boy. I'm sure he would render you unconscious before ever letting it get that far. Alright, that should do it. Let me just grab a bandage in case any of them start bleeding again."

A pause, then Ducky spoke again.

"Those are some fairly impressive shadows you have under those eyes of yours. Trouble sleeping, my dear boy?"

The query was casual, but DiNozzo was no stranger to interrogations. "I'm a cop," was the wary counter, all traces of amusement gone from his voice.

"I'm aware." The words were soft. "If I may be so bold, how many hours of sleep do you average a night these days?"

A very long silence. Had he shrugged again?

Then—

"I honestly don't know, Doc."

The raw weariness, the tone of defeat, hit Gibbs like a punch to the gut_. Damn it, Tony._

"I see. Do you know the reason?"

A rough, soft laugh. "Yeah. I know." Another pause. "Some stuff—bad stuff—happened in the field."

"A lot of this scarring is recent." Ducky's voice was gentle.

_Scarlet, dripping everywhere._

Gibbs closed his eyes, warring with memory. The silence this time stretched for almost a full minute. Then—

"I have a way with psychos."

Gibbs's fingers clutched at nothing. Tony had tried for wry with the comment, but there was no humor here.

Ducky had no audible response. Gibbs took a heaving breath, feeling mingled pain and relief. Excruciating as it was to hear, for the younger man to verbally acknowledge that something had happened—even he admitted only a fraction of the whole—was huge.

Gibbs spotted the supposedly misplaced stethoscope on the desk, and grabbed it aimlessly, feeling oddly lost. It _was_ a relief. But that didn't stop the pang of a sudden new realization.

It wasn't the quiet version of DiNozzo that had made him feel wrong-footed, after all.

It was the DiNozzo who'd slammed back up every barrier there had ever been between them—the DiNozzo who would share more with a medical examiner he'd known for a day than with the man who'd saved his life.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Author's Note: Ah, chapter three...in which everyone is muddled, and stubborn at all the worst moments, and miscommunications abound. ;) Hello again, everyone! See, no worries—I always come back. Hope you enjoyed the latest installment! It was an extra long one, too. As always, please review!

Incidentally...I'm half a season behind NCIS, and I missed a number of of key episodes the year before this one, so if for some reason you feel compelled to start spewing spoilers in the reviews section, please refrain for my sake. ;)


	4. Building a Mystery

Chapter Warnings: Language

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

"_You woke up screaming aloud_

_A prayer from your secret god_

_You feed off our fears_

_And hold back your tears, oh_

_Give us a tantrum_

_And a know it all grin_

_Just when we need one_

_When the evening's thin..."_

—_Building a Mystery_ by Sarah McLachlan

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Suddenly, Gibbs couldn't stand to lurk here any longer, listening to words that DiNozzo had clearly never intended for him to hear. Banging a drawer to give warning, the agent strolled out of the office, pasting a good-natured scowl on his face.

"Do I even wanna know how your stethoscope got wedged behind the file cabinet, Duck?"

"Ah, there you are, Jethro. We're just about finished," Ducky said lightly. As always, he was smooth—if Gibbs hadn't been eavesdropping, he would never have guessed the intensity of the conversation mere seconds previous. Someday he'd have to put the ME undercover. "Goodness, is that where that dratted thing was. Please put it over with those scalpels. If my assistant actually showed his face for once, I might have my tools in some semblance of order—what's this? Splinters?"

Ducky lifted Tony's hand, scrutinizing his fingers with professional curiosity.

"Your partner sent over your statement. It said that you grabbed your attacker's weapon in the tussle. Could that be the source of these?"

Tony blinked, looking discomfited. "I...actually didn't notice them. I guess I should have gotten checked out at the scene."

"Yeah, you should have." Gibbs made no effort to curb his natural bluntness. "It's evidence."

Tony frowned, opened his mouth, and closed it.

"Well, no matter," Ducky interjected rather hastily, digging into Tony's finger with his tweezers. "Hold still. I think I have it now. You know, this reminds me of a man I treated once, who decided to go tree climbing in the bare. But he was rather intoxicated at the time, and once he reached the top he decided it was actually a fireman's pole. He survived the slide, luckily. But I think his child producing days were over..."

At that, DiNozzo's face actually tinged green. Gibbs couldn't blame him. "Doc, this really isn't helping take my mind off—ow!"

"Oh, do stop whining. There we go, it's all out." Ducky popped the splinter into one of his plastic sample bottles, and rose to his feet. "I'll just run this on up to Abby. I hope you will be careful with that shoulder, Anthony."

Tossing the preemptive rebuke over his shoulder, Ducky left them in silence.

Immediately, Tony slid off the table, clearing his throat. "We probably should get up to the squad room. And I should probably call my partner and update him. He's a worrier. See, he gets these ideas in his head of all these horrible things that probably happened, and if I can't head him off at the pass, it literally takes hours to convince him otherwise—"

The younger man was talking far too fast, clearly unnerved to be alone with Gibbs. The agent bit back a tired sigh. Trying to keep up with DiNozzo's moods was like trying to anticipate a whirlwind. To actually pick out the causeof each shift would require a level of emotional introspection that Gibbs was reluctant to indulge in. But whatever the reason, Tony was currently so unsettled, it was actually uncomfortable to watch.

"DiNozzo." Gibbs cut him off. "You going to walk up to the bullpen like that?"

Tony blinked, seeming to register his shirtless state anew. "I—"

"What? You shy?"

With effort, Gibbs softened his tone so that the teasing was unmistakably good-natured. For the briefest instant, Tony searched Gibbs's face, before cracking a blinding smile.

A truce, of sorts.

At least he'd stopped the anxious babbling. Gibbs wasn't fool enough to think the tension was truly resolved, but he'd settle for putting it hold.

"No, I just don't want to give a free peep show. I may be loose, but I'm not cheap." Tony quipped, attempting a pose that might have been intended to be coy.

Gibbs snorted, easing into the comfortable banter. "Last guy that flirted with me was a hell of lot better at it." Grabbing his bag, he pulled out a worn grey USMC t-shirt—his spare. A bit wrinkled, but it would work.

"Hey, give me time," DiNozzo protested. "I grow on you."

"Like a fungus?" Gibbs shot back, passing the shirt.

Tony adopted a wounded air. "Hey, now. I'm an acquired taste." He regarded the shirt uncertainly.

This, _again_? "DiNozzo," Gibbs blurted finally, exasperated beyond endurance. "Would it kill you to ask for help?"

Tony stared at him, looking completely astonished.

What did he _think_ that had all been about? Gibbs huffed in annoyance—the kid was going to drive him mad—and gestured for Tony to life his arms. He eased the worn fabric on gently, trying to jostle the shoulder as little as possible.

It was probably testimony to how out of sorts the younger man was that he hadn't thrown in more spectacularly awkward innuendo.

"You know," Tony said, the words muffled as he pulled the tee over his head, "Most couples don't start borrowing clothes until after a least the first few dates."

And...he'd spoken too soon. Gibbs rolled his eyes, amused in spite of himself. "And here I thought you said you were easy."

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

"DiNozzo. Desk."

Tony followed the pointed finger almost meekly, and dropped into the seat, gazing curiously around the bullpen. Orange walls? That was a curious choice. Distinctive, if hideous. Otherwise, though, the room looked like a nicer version of every bullpen he'd ever been in.

It was insufficient stimuli to distance him from the anxiety lurking just under the surface of his mind. Deciding that childishness was as good a distraction as any, Tony spun his chair wildly, letting the dizzying sensation banish his jumbled thoughts for a time. Office chairs really had missed their calling as playground equipment. Also, Gibbs's red-haired agent was watching him and looking annoyingly professional in her suit, and it felt good to vex her.

Especially since she looked pretty hot when pissed off.

"Blackadder," Gibbs growled—not an angry growl, just an everyday sort—and sank into his own chair. "Druckenbrod. Background. What'cha got?"

Looking apprehensive, Blackadder stood, grabbing a remote. "Meet Pete Druckenbrod. Fifty-five years of age, and a Navy Chaplain."

A picture flew up onto the screen. Grey eyes, wavy salt-and-pepper hair; a narrow, serious face. Without the bruises, the aging man was almost completely unrecognizable as the corpse Tony had stumbled upon.

"He was born in Brookeville, Maryland, to Frank and Dianne Druckenbrod." She clicked the remote. "They stayed in Maryland until Pete turned ten, at which point the entire family moved to South Africa so that his father could be a pastor at Queen's College."

Tony's cellphone chimed. The ID flashed _Adam_. "Sorry," he muttered, pressing a button to hang up.

"Any other family?" Gibbs asked, ignoring the interruption.

"No siblings. He has an eighty-five-year-old cousin—"

"Ah, that's our man. The geriatric cousin. It's the oldest trick in the book," Tony interjected in a conspiratorial stage whisper. "You turn your back, and—BAM! He clubs you over the head with his walker."

"—_female_ cousin, in a mental hospital for advanced dementia," Blackadder overrode his absurdity, voice frigid.

Not so much as an eye-roll? Tough nut to crack.

"Otherwise, no. Both of his parents are now deceased, as well. Now, Pete graduated from Queen's, and eventually took over his father's role as pastor, but only for three years, at which point he moved to DC and became a Chaplain for the Navy."

"What prompted that?" Tony asked, curious.

Blackadder answered him grudgingly, not taking her eyes off the screen. "I don't know, but it ran in the family. His grandfather was a celebrated Navy Chaplain."

_Ring_. Adam, again. Tony hung up hurriedly, and smiled sheepishly when the female agent put one hand on her hip.

"Is that all you got?" Gibbs demanded, swiveling to his feet.

"Not exactly." She clicked the remote again. "Pete has no criminal record, but I did notice a odd pattern in his travels. In the last twenty or so years, he when he wasn't deployed, he's made over thirty trips to South Africa, Botswana, Namibia, and Canada. Given his history, South Africa makes sense, but the others aren't exactly tourist locations, and it's way too clear of a pattern to be a coincidence. But what's the connection?"

"I know," Tony blurted, too surprised she hadn't seen it to wait his turn.

Gibbs raised his eyebrows—in dispute or encouragement, Tony couldn't tell.

The detective got to his feet, moving to join them in front of the screen. "South Africa, Botswana, Namibia, Canada—they're all major diamond exporters, associated with De Beers."

Blackadder looked blank.

"De Beers? Only the world's most successful diamond mining company?" Tony asked incredulously.

She shrugged, tossing burnished curls over her shoulder.

"You thinking smuggling?" Gibbs asked, still expressionless.

"Maybe." Tony spread his heads, a questioning gesture. "It's something, right?"

"That's a big assumption," Blackadder bit out, clearly smarting.

"Could be right," Gibbs said coolly, smiling faintly at the detective.

A smile, from Gibbs?

Blackadder deflated visibly, looking down. Tony felt a little bit bad then.

But just a little.

The ex-marine crossed his arms. "DiNozzo. Suspects. What do we have to go on?"

Him? "Um." Tony cleared his throat. "I saw three men around the body, but I think there were four involved, because those ran when they saw me, but someone still jumped me. He might have been the lookout; I don't know. That guy was blond, with a kind of pointy nose. He was tall—at least my height, I think."

"Blond and over six foot, with a pointy nose," Blackadder repeated. "Wow. Great going. With that, we can have a wanted poster out any day now."

The sarcasm stung more than he would have expected.

"Think you'd recognize him if you saw him again?" To Tony's gratitude, there was no hint of derision in Gibbs's steady blue gaze.

There'd been something so memorable about the eyes. "Maybe. I think so."

As if on cue, his phone trilled for the third time.

Tony peeped at the ID, and sighed. "Sorry. I've really got to take this. It's my partner." Ignoring Gibbs's forbidding stare, the detective retreated to the nearby stairwell.

"Hi, man."

"Tony, where have you been?" The deep voice was exasperated. "I've been trying to reach you for hours. NCIS won't share anything with our people. It's a complete nightmare."

Tony banged the back of his head against the wall lightly, twice, in self-recrimination. Of course it was.

He really should have anticipated this.

"Sorry, man. I don't think Special Agent Gibbs actually understands the concept of a "joint investigation," Tony admitted, somewhere between irritated and rueful at the discovery. "Look, I'll talk—"

The phone was plucked from his fingers.

Gibbs leaned against the wall, corner of his mouth lifted in a smirk, and spoke into the mouthpiece.

"Far as I'm concerned, DiNozzo's enough a handful. My lead, my people. You'll get an update later." With that, he flipped the cell shut and tossed it back to Tony.

"Hey!"

"My lead." Gibbs lifted an eyebrow, daring argument. "My choice. He calls you again, ignore it."

"Adam's not going to stop trying to work on the case just because you hung up on him."

The agent's lips quirked. He didn't actually say _sucks for him,_ or _do I look like I give a damn_, but the intent was plain. "Back to work, DiNozzo. Recess is over."

There was nothing to say in the face of that. Shaking his head disbelievingly, Tony strolled back to his desk, and plopped into the chair. A peculiar feeling was bubbling up in his chest, underneath the dismay. Tony swiveled back and forth in his seat one more time, and prodded the unidentified emotion until it took solid form.

When it did, a slow, startled smile spread across his face.

Laughter. Well-buried laughter, but laughter all the same.

Who the hell _did_ that, anyway?

God—

He'd actually missed working with this bastard.

"Blackadder—keep digging," Gibbs barked, professional case leader once more. "I want emails, a list of deployments, friends, associates; bank balances. Look for any connection to the diamond industry. Anything odd, you sniff it out. DiNozzo." Gibbs jerked his silvery head. "With me. "

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Today, the music in Abby's lab was set at a dull roar—merely deafening rather than actually painful.

DiNozzo nearly hit the floor anyway when the elevator doors slid open, evidently unprepared for the dulcet screams of _Cannibal Corpse_. "What the hell?" The detective asked—or at least that was what Gibbs thought he asked, given the movement of his lips.

Gibbs just smiled, the pounding beat rendering further response conveniently impossible. Truth be told, he always looked forward to this. Introducing Abby to strangers was the social equivalent of handing somebody a live bomb—sometimes they knew how to diffuse it, and sometimes they didn't.

Either way, it was fun to watch them sweat.

As the music spiked in volume, DiNozzo actually stopped walking, clapping his hands over his ears.

"Abs," Gibbs bellowed, poking his head into the lab. Jet-black pigtails, festooned with what appeared to be plastic Mr. Yuck faces, bobbed along to a rhythm discernable only to their owner. "_Abs_!"

The tall figure jolted. Spotting Gibbs, Abby beamed, waving wildly. One handed, she grabbed her remote, plunging them into silence.

"Gibbs! Wait until you see—!"

"Does that actually count as _music_?"

Abby's and Tony's exclamations overlaid, almost enough to render both inaudible.

Almost.

The temperature in the lab plunged to below zero. Light green eyes, outlined in charcoal smears, narrowed to serpentine slits. "Care to repeat that, mystery person?"

The menacing tone would have sent a prudent man running for the hills, but no one had ever accused DiNozzo of knowing when to back down.

Tony strolled into the lab, hands in his pockets. "I said, does that even—"

He trailed off, cheeky expression fading to gobsmacked.

"_Abby_?"

Her jaw dropped.

"_Ton_y?" She squeaked, eyes growing huge. "What are you _doing_ here? No, never mind, don't answer that—hallucinations don't have to make sense—Gibbs, don't pinch me, I don't want to wake up!"

With that, Abby raced forward, hurling her arms around the detective.

Gibbs wished someone would pinch _him_.

"I tried the number you gave me so many times," Abby mumbled into Tony's shirt, still clinging to him like a limpet. "But I could never reach you!"

"Sorry, Abby," DiNozzo answered softly, expression genuinely regretful. "That phone got run over by a truck."

_What. The._ _Hell?_

Reality had gleefully shifted, leaving Gibbs twisting in the winds of bewilderment. "You two know each other?" The agent managed.

Abby giggled, face transformed with impishness. She swayed back and forth in place, with her arms still looped around Tony's waist. "Do I know him?" She gave a squeeze. "Gibbs, he saved my life!"

"I think you might have saved mine too, Abby," Tony retorted, grinning, apparently unflustered by their impromptu slow dance.

"Tony, feeding you pizza doesn't count as saving your life."

"Sausage, extra cheese? My_ favorite_ pizza? After two days spent subsisting on celery and sardines? Close enough."

Of Gibbs's rather limited array of preferred emotional states, 'confusion_' _ranked somewhere around 'regret' and 'outright misery'—and came into actual use about as often as 'hyper'.

"How do you two know each other?" The ex-marine demanded, at the end of his tether. If they'd had...a _fling_, he was going to smack DiNozzo's head in. He was going to smack _both _of their heads in.

But DiNozzo's first.

"We hooked up," Abby informed him cheerily.

Heat flooded to Gibbs's head.

"_Abby!" _DiNozzo's voice squeaked, his face turning the hue of an overripe strawberry. "That's not—we didn't—that's not funny."

Catching Gibbs's expression, the younger man actually took a step back, dragging the lab tech with him.

Abby giggled throatily. "But it would have been fun. Oh, silly Gibbs, don't look at Tony like that—he's a total gentleman. And anyway, he doesn't have nearly enough tattoos."

"Abby," Gibbs growled in warning, a headache starting to pound behind his temples.

"Oh, you're no fun." Pouting, Abby released her captive. "Tony. Sit there and don't move. We're not done. Gibbs, remember that time two years ago, when I visited the National Center for Agricultural Utilization Research in Peoria on my vacation, because that's where mass production penicillin was produced, and that's just so _cool_—and I called you and told you that I'd been in a grocery store hold up, but not to freak out, because I knew you would freak out, and I was completely fine, even if we were all in there for two days because the shooter decided to do the whole hostage thing—"

Yes. Gibbs remembered.

It had been one of the more heart-stopping calls of his NCIS career.

"—and even if I _did _get shot at...and it was all okay because an off-duty cop totally took charge and saved everybody?"

DiNozzo cleared his throat uncomfortably. "That's not exactly—"

"Yes, it is!" Abby insisted. "It's _exactly_. Tony's a hero, Bossman."

Gibbs stared at them both—at Abby, with her wide, earnest eyes; at DiNozzo, stripped of his playboy persona by Abby's typhoon of a personality, seemingly fascinated by something on the floor. Suddenly he was suffused with a sort of cosmic gratitude.

Abby's Peoria protector was DiNozzo?

There really were no coincidences, after all.

"Yeah, Abs." Gibbs said carefully, staring until the strength of his gaze forced Tony to look up. The detective's face was almost painfully unguarded, as though he expected a rebuke. "I know."

Gibbs expected a flash of pleasure, or a smile; at worst, a volley of deflective humor.

He didn't expect Tony's eyes to grow stony.

"Abby, did you get any results on the samples we sent up?" DiNozzo rose, his voice polite but clipped.

The Goth looked between them, catching the tension in an instant. "Yeah," she said slowly. "The splinters? They're, um, white ash." She looked Tony over, biting a maroon lip, but seemed to think better of whatever she wanted to say. Instead, she turned slowly back to the screen. "It's a really common wood for baseball pats. It would have to be an old, _damaged_ baseball bat, to leave a splinter this big, though. Is this the murder weapon?"

"Since I got whacked with it by the lookout while the actual attackers ran, I doubt it," Tony replied grimly, leaning back against the table and crossing his arms. "But who knows what happened before I got there. Well, except for the screaming. And the dying. That definitely happened."

"You're hurt? You were attacked? Tony!" Abby reached for him again, voice sharpening with concern.

DiNozzo jerked away from her slender fingers. "I'm fine," he said sharply, eyes flashing. "Anything else?"

"Only a little." Abby drooped visibly at the rebuff, slumping. "None of the samples I'm running show any signs of drugs, or poisons, or anything unusual. Our man was drunk, though. Not falling down drunk, but had-a-couple-too-many tipsy."

"Alright. Don't bother running it the blood. It's mine." Unsmiling, Tony stood with the defensive grace of a snake coiled to strike. "I'll be in the squad room."

Every line of his face warned '_do not touch.' _Gibbs let him go, simply nodding.

The doors slid shut behind rigid shoulders.

"Is he okay?" A husky whisper. Familiar, gentle hands wrapped around his elbow. Abby gazed up at him, stricken. Her glistening eyes screamed _fix it_.

Gibbs pressed a kiss to her forehead, running a gentle hand over her silky hair. "Good work, Abs."

It wasn't the reassurance she wanted, but he'd never been one to offer empty promises.

And maybe some things were too torn to mend.

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Chapter Notes: Hi again! Thank you all so much for your alerts, favorites, and particularly your beautiful, satisfying reviews! They prompt me to dance goofily around my bedroom in ecstasies of glee. My cats would also like to thank you, for providing such a spectacle. (And in case you're more of a dog person, they're intrigued by my dancing, too.)

Case fics, I am finding, are rather...interesting, in ways both good and bad, to write . I hope you enjoyed this installment! To those of you I told to expect it, oh, about three days ago...sorry! I was mulling over a couple elements I'd put in, and we also had a houseguest.


	5. Into Your War

Chapter Warnings: Violence, Mild Language, and Dark Themes

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"_Time here all but means nothing, _

_Just shadows that move across the wall_

_They keep me company, but they don't ask of me_

_They don't say nothing at all_

_And I need just a little more silence_

_And I need just a little more time_

_But you send your thieves to me, silently stalking me_

_Dragging me into your war..."_

—_Time _by Sarah McLachlan

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Tony barely made it to the top of the stairs before the shakes hit. Tremors rippling through his fingers, he spotted a door marked _Supplies_, and stumbled into blessed privacy.

Tony slid to the floor behind metal shelves, thinly clad back pressed against chilled concrete, and wrapped his good arm around his knees in a last, futile attempt to ward off memory with the solidity of touch. But to no avail.

Surrender.

_The room's solitary light bulb swayed and flickered, casting shadows that shrank and inflated, morphing into monsters. So cold he could barely feel his toes, Tony shut unfocused eyes, trying contain nausea and confusion at his ever-changing surroundings._

_ A rasping laugh, the rustle of a crouched man shuffling forward. Flecks of spit, speckling his cheeks._

_ "And so you think you can rest now?"_

_ Even half delirious, Tony recognized that voice as though it had been branded into his soul. Every muscle begged him to flee._

_But he no longer had movement in him._

_ The lilting words continued, a verbal caress as invasive as pain. "I know, Tony. I know. It is hard even to remember who you are, now, isn't it?" A gentle hand ruffled Tony's hair, sending shivers of revulsion through his skin, but he still couldn't open his eyes. _

_He was just...so...tired. _

"_Chained like an animal, bathing in your own blood and filth. Where is that loudmouthed fool from this morning? Or was it even this morning...it feels like a lifetime, does it not?" If possible, the words softened further, but somehow they sounded louder in his head. "You're broken, Tony. Even if you could walk away, you would never be able to wake up from this. Every time you close your eyes, you will remember how weak you were in the end. Tell me, Tony. Did you think yourself a hero when you became a cop? A white knight, out to save the innocent? Ah, yes...so heroic, hiding behind the skirts of a woman. It would be mercy to kill you, to let you forget your own cowardice. Like putting down a dog." A boot lashed out, colliding with the younger man's mangled hand. A guttural groan worked its way out of Tony's throat, and he sucked in breath in short pants, the tangy scent of blood mingling with a sharp faux lemon scent, like household cleaners..._

Lemon?

That didn't belong in this nightmare vision. Tony grabbed onto the jarring scent with an iron mental grasp, wielding it like a sword against the fog of remembrance.

It was over. _Over_. Tony repeated the mantra almost violently, until the basement walls finally faded into a harmless assortment of mops and brooms. For a long moment, he sat perfectly still.

A wild blow, quick as a cobra strike, sent the cleaning supplies clattering to the ground.

Breathing heavily, Tony ran the back of his hand over his eyes, and told himself the moisture he found there was a reaction to the dusty closet.

God _damn_ it.

It _was_ actually getting worse. He hadn't had a flashback since before he joined Baltimore's police force full time. Dreams were one thing...wretched, but they didn't pose a danger to his work in the field. This, though...Tony couldn't afford to go comatose every time someone's words triggered thoughts of Macaluso.

_Someone_. Tony snorted softly. Who was he kidding? It wasn't 'someone'; it was Gibbs. Gibbs, whose very voice threw him back to being undercover. Gibbs, who put him off balance with a look and a barked command, and switched between caustic and gentle without warning. Gibbs, whose unadulterated alpha male energy had—for a jumbled, confused moment in autopsy—actually frightened him with its ability to control.

It was Gibbs, and an Abby who'd sprung out of nowhere, and the world of NCIS that seemed intent on reminding him of a self he no longer had the capability to be.

It wasn't him. He'd been _fine_ before yesterday. And as soon as this case was closed, he could retreat back to Baltimore, and never have to think about any of this again. He just had to hold on until then, and that meant not letting Gibbs get under his skin. He could do this.

Shields. Smoke and mirrors. Pretending.

That, at least, he knew he was still good at it.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

By the time Tony made it back up to his desk the bullpen, he had restored himself to outward composure. To the detective's intense relief, Gibbs was nowhere in sight.

Blackadder, however, very much was.

"You were right."

A stack of papers slammed onto the desk in front of him, fluttering in their self-created rush of air. Eyes fringed with auburn lashes sparked blue fire. "There. Records of diamonds reported missing at each De Beers mine, for years, each time Druckenbrod was traveling there."

She was taking this awfully hard. Unwilling to kick her while she was down, he tried, "Suspicious, but it could be a coincidence."

"Don't condescend to me, Detective." She dropped into her seat, bitterness dripping from each word. "You were right, and I looked like an idiot in front of Gibbs. What else is new."

Ah.

Tony leaned backwards, considering her—the rigid set to her mouth, the slightly slumped shoulders and felt an unexpected pang of sympathy. With a sigh of resignation to his own doom, Tony tossed a paper wad at her curly head.

"Blackadder."

She ignored him.

Well, that wouldn't do on principle. People were free to detest him, but ignoring him was _not_ allowed. "Blackie." Tony called loudly. A few people turned in their cubicles to stare. "Hey. Blackie. Snake lady. "

"It's Vivian," she snapped finally, slamming down her pen. "Now will you shut up?"

Feisty, feisty. "Viv-ian." Tony drew the sound out, savoring the satisfaction of winning. "Vivian. Viv. Vivacious Vivian. I like it."

"What do you _want_?"

Tony tilted his head slightly, eyes serious. "Care for some advice?"

"As if I'd need advice from a windbag suck-up like you."

_Ouch_.

"So sweet, our lady," Tony said, with a wince that wasn't altogether feigned. "Well, then you can just laugh at my oh-so-wise words."

"I don't suppose you're actually going to be quiet no matter what I say," she countered waspishly after a pause. "You like to hear yourself talk too much."

Ah, bitchy-woman-ese for 'I'd like to hear what you have to say without having to admit it.' That was alright—he'd had a lot of experience translating that particular dialect.

"True enough," Tony admitted cheerfully, strolling to stand near her desk. "Here goes, then. Gibbs doesn't put up with people he thinks are idiots. And I think he's been putting up with you for a good while now. So stop trying to prove something he already knows. And in any case," the uncharacteristically shrewd look had her blushing, "You're not competing with me. It's not like I'm staying around anyway."

"Please. He's practically drooling over you." The words could have been harsh, but the bite was missing. Her expression was almost plaintive now. "I'd bet my next paycheck that he's going to offer you a job the minute we're done with this case."

Tony didn't reply immediately—because what did he _say_ to that? _Actually, he kind of already did...I think...but only because he felt bad for leaving me in my sorry mess? _

"It doesn't matter if he does," the detective answered finally, fighting a pang of wistfulness that had nothing to do with the beautiful woman in front of him. "I'm not staying."

Straightening, Tony looked up into a familiar light blue gaze. A thrill of unpleasant surprise jolted through him.

_Crap._

Didn't the man make noise? Tony waited, expecting...something. An explosion, cutting words, a head slap. A laughing, savage, who-the-hell-are-you-kidding-to-think-I-would-offe r-a-buffoon-like-you-a-job.

But Gibbs showed no reaction, merely turning to his teammate. "Blackadder. Check out the cousin. DiNozzo, with me."

"But—she's in a mental hospital!" Vivian's protest fell on deaf ears, with Gibbs already striding away.

"This is where you say, 'Isn't that_ your_ field of expertise?'" Tony suggested helpfully as he passed her desk, in spite of his surging anxiety. "Go on, it'll make you feel better."

The eloquent finger didn't cancel out the reluctant shadow of a smile.

Ha, he knew that look. He was growing on her.

At least something had gone well today.

Smirking a little, Tony followed Gibbs.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Tony slammed the car door, stepping out into the blinding Baltimore afternoon light with an overwhelming sense of relief.

That drive had given 'uncomfortable' new meaning. Oh, not exclusively—it had felt natural...wonderful, actually...to discuss the details of the case, bouncing ideas between the two of them. But in the rest of the drive, with Tony chattering away madly, at first to keep up appearances, and then because he couldn't believe he was getting away with it...

Not one sharp word.

Gibbs was handling him with kid gloves. He was being..._kind_.

It made Tony want to hit something, and he wasn't even sure why.

But that didn't jive with his plan to make as little ruckus as possible.

"Nice place," Gibbs commented.

As usual, the ex-marine operated by the rule of understatement. 'Nice' really didn't cut it. Tony was no real estate expert, but a combination of growing up in the DiNozzo mansion and working in Baltimore had taught him a thing or two about housing prices. Remodeled old stone carriage houses with gorgeous landscaping, set in the nice areas of the city, broke the million-dollar ceiling by a _very_ comfortable mile.

"Too nice for a chaplain's budget?" Tony replied, catching the purpose of the casual comment.

"Unless he was mortgaged up to his ears."

They walked up the winding driveway, the scent of flowering roses washing over them in waves.

"I guess we'll find out more from Vivian when the account information comes through." Tony stepped back, letting Gibbs knock.

"Federal Agents!"

Unsurprisingly, given that the owner was currently residing on one of Dr. Mallard's slabs, there was no response. Gibbs unlocked the door.

Tony stepped inside after him—and let loose a low whistle. A wide spiral staircase swept up to a second floor landing. Ornate antiques dotted every available floor space. "This place is like a castle. The man had expensive taste."

"Says the guy who was wearing a Zegna shirt this morning," Gibbs retorted, lips quirking as he tugged on gloves.

"I had a date the night before," Tony protested, secretly enjoying the banter. Searching this monster of a home was going to take an eternity; the least they could do was distract each other.

A pile of mail lay on the accent table near the . The detective riffled through it. Junk mail, junk mail, even more junk mail...did the man intend to wallpaper his house with _Better Homes and Gardens_?

"You always pair Zegna and lime green sneakers on your dates?"

Tony sputtered. "I had to borrow them from my partner at the crime scene! I can't help that he dresses like a dork in his free time!" Junk mail, junk mail, utilities bill...hmm. No return address. "Hey, take a look at—whoa."

At the younger man's tone, Gibbs abandoned his systematic search of the entry room instantly. Tony extended the cream-colored stationary with gingerly, glove-clad fingers.

"'Remember what I said,'" Gibbs read out loud, silvery eyebrows snapping together at the cryptic words.

"That's kind of ominous. A little cheesy, but ominous."

"Bag it," the agent commanded. "We'll take it back to Abby for analysis."

Tony took it back, folding the paper with one last look at the simple black font.

"Hello? Is someone there?"

A high voice, a little quavering.

Both men spun on instinct, guns raised.

"Federal Agents!"

"Baltimore PD!"

A tiny old woman draped in a floral gown gaped at them, pressing both hands to her chest. "Oh! Oh, goodness gracious!"

"Who are you?" Tony demanded.

"Oh, I'm just Edith Szmidt," she gasped, owl-eyed behind her glasses. "I live next door. I work for Mr. Druckenbrod. I was just upstairs; you see, I feed his goldfish when he's away."

"His goldfish," Tony repeated, lowering his gun at Gibbs's lead. The detective's eyebrows launched up to meet his hairline. "That's it? He paid you to feed his _goldfish_. Won't they all just die in a few weeks anyway?"

"Oh, no, Angel is very healthy!" Edith protested earnestly, looking a little distressed. "Beautiful, all red and white with a plumy tail. He's had her for nine years."

_Nine years!_ Tony opened his mouth incredulously, intending to suggest that "Angel" might have been reincarnated a few times, but Gibbs silenced him with a look.

The ex marine held out his badge. "NCIS. Can we ask you a few questions about your employer, Ma'am?"

"Why—why yes, I suppose so."

Gibbs escorted her to an elaborate couch, his manner surprisingly gentle.

"How well do you know your employer, Ms. Szmidt?"

She settled into the seat, pale, wrinkled face furrowing in concern. "Oh, well...not very well. Really, he's away so much, I feel almost as though Angel is really mine. He's a very nice man, though. Always very polite. A wonderful neighbor to have. So quiet."

"Does he have any friends here? Any tensions with other neighbors?" Gibbs prompted.

"No, I wouldn't really say either. See, he really is gone almost all the time, so he doesn't have time for socializing, and he's such a nice man, I can't imagine him getting into an argument at all! Do you know, he's a Chaplain? I do love to have such a Godly neighbor."

Tony seriously doubted it was considered pious to smuggle diamonds—he might no longer be strictly Catholic, but catechisms _had_ left their mark—but she seemed sincere in her appraisal, at least.

"So no enemies, at all," Gibbs repeated. To Tony's highly attuned ear, there was a thread of frustration there.

Another dead end.

"Well!" A slightly indignant hand planted itself on her hip. "Not that _I_ ever heard of! What on earth is this all about, anyway?"

Gibbs gazed at her steadily. "Chaplain Druckenbrod was found dead this morning."

"Oh!" If possible, the owlish eyes widened even further. Her nose was tiny, over a small, full mouth, further heightening the impression of an aging bird to Tony's imaginative eye. "Oh, that's _terrible._ The poor man! What happened to him?"

"That's what we're trying to figure out. Can you tell us anything else about him? His habits? Anyone he ever mentioned?"

It was fascinating to Gibbs in this mode—investigator, yes, but socially smooth enough to deal with potentially bereaved relatives and friends.

"Well, I never saw him with anyone that I can think of except for the gardening crews, but there's a restaurant in the Inner Harbor that he mentioned a couple of times. Oh, what was it called. I don't know. The Flopping Fish? Some silly name like that. I think he went there a lot."

A lead—finally.

Gibbs rose to his feet. "Thank you, Ms. Szmidt. Anything else you think of that seems useful, let us know. Here's my card. The house is going to be under investigation for a while, so don't come back in."

"Oh—oh, certainly." The elderly woman rose to her feet shakily, accepting the agent's helping hand. "But, wait—who's going to take care of Angel now?"

In the face of her clear distress, Gibbs and Tony shared a look of resignation.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

"If I never smell another fish tank in my_ life_ it'll be too soon."

The lament bordered on petulant, but after an afternoon and evening spent fruitlessly searching a determinedly squeaky clean house for signs of foul play, Gibbs couldn't bring himself to disagree. Hell, _he_ felt petulant, and he hadn't sloshed half of the inadequately filtered contents of a massive fish tank down his shirt.

Fish tanks, as it turned out, were not engineered to navigate stairs, much less driveways and old women's cluttered living rooms.

Despite her perilous adventure, though, Angel was still alive and well in her new lodgings. DiNozzo seemed to take the fish's minute-to-minute existence as a sign of either divine favor or a connection to the occult. Gibbs hadn't been sure what the devil the younger man had been babbling on about by the end, though it included multiple assertions that "fish were friends, not food" and something about cats choking on goldfish. Of course, given that "the end" had rolled around at roughly two in the morning, Gibbs wasn't sure even Tony knew what he was saying.

He'd finally shut up when Gibbs suggested seeing if a _man_ could choke on a goldfish, though.

They'd had some help near the end, at least. DiNozzo had eventually suggested, with an expression appropriate to someone trying to catch a porcupine with bare hands, that maybe calling in Baltimore PD to help would appease his partner and speed up the process. On balance, it wasn't a bad idea—not that Gibbs cared in the slightest about relations with Baltimore, but free labor was always worth something. Happily, the yawning agent who finally rolled in at one in the morning to assist was also easy to bully, and Gibbs had forced him to take the suspicious letter back NCIS's lab on pain of death or severe humiliation.

But that left them in Baltimore, with more to investigate at the break of dawn.

Now, apparently spent by his frustrated outburst, Tony settled for following Gibbs silently into the empty lobby of the nearest Best Eastern hotel.

The receptionist, a pimply-faced middle-eastern youth who looked about sixteen but—if the profuse mustache growth was any indicator—was probably at least five years older, glanced up at the two of them with sleepy, half-lidded eyes.

"Two rooms for the night," Gibbs stated, with the firm, authoritative tone of one who expected no arguments despite the late hour. Tony, beside him, picked up a paperweight from the counter and began to juggle it aimlessly.

Unfortunately, the universe wasn't as impressed with the agent's intimidation factor as the police officer from earlier had been.

"I'm sorry, sir," the employee countered politely, looking askance at DiNozzo's antics, but refraining from comment. "We only have one vacancy. Twin beds. It's very late."

Almost imperceptibly, DiNozzo stiffened beside him. "We can still find a different hotel," the younger man suggested immediately, replacing the paperweight.

_No way in hell_.

The younger man had looked dead on his feet for hours, and the worrisome purple shadows under his eyes were edging into the territory of black. For that matter, Gibbs was in no mood to hop from hotel to hotel at two in the morning to assuage the younger man's anxieties.

He settled for a wry, "Don't worry, DiNozzo. Your virtue's safe with me."

"I don't have a toothbrush," the younger man blurted, eyes darting wildly to the side.

Of all the pathetic excuses...

Annoyance flared. Did he think Gibbs would smother him in his sleep?

"That's alright, sir. We have toothbrushes," the clerk piped up helpfully. "Several different colors. Some of them are even scented. Would you like peppermint grape, or strawberry lemon?"

"You know what I'd like?" DiNozzo suggested without warning, voice an alarmingly peppy mimicry of the clerk's. "I'd like to take those toothbrushes, and—"

"DiNozzo!" Gibbs barked hastily, catching the direction of the comment just in time.

Tony fell silent, eyes shooting daggers, but the effect was dampened when he actually swayed on his feet.

They needed to get to the room, before an exhausted DiNozzo either passed out—or got them kicked out of the hotel.

Which, granted, was probably exactly what the kid was hoping would happen. A spark of amusement at the maneuver mingled with the agent's annoyance. "We'll take it," Gibbs overrode, gripping the detective's elbow.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

The hotel room was cramped but cozy—perfectly acceptable by Gibbs's standards, but he braced himself for a snooty diatribe from DiNozzo-the-high-life-obsessed.

None was forthcoming. Tony hovered by the doorway to the bathroom awkwardly, gripping his pink strawberry lemon toothbrush in both hands like a lifeline.

"Got a bed preference?" Gibbs tried, caught once again between the instinct warning him to be patient and the instinct to corner the younger man until he finally got some damned answers.

The response was slow. "I like the one farther from the door. I kind of wanted to shower, but, um," Tony cleared his throat, gesturing vaguely at his t-shirt with his good arm.

Ah. Gibbs nodded, face carefully impassive despite a flash of satisfaction—so DiNozzo _could_ learn—and tossed his pack on the nearer bed. The agent beckoned, gesturing roughly for Tony to raise his arms, and tactfully ignored his embarrassed flush.

To his dismay, DiNozzo was as stiff as a board with discomfort. Gritting his teeth with frustration, Gibbs jerked the shirt up forcefully, accidentally jostling the detective's shoulder.

The bump was slight, and not hard enough to hurt, but DiNozzo flinched anyway. Sighing inwardly, Gibbs lifted his arm to toss the wadded, aquarium-water soaked shirt into the front corner of the room.

Instantly, a forearm flew up to block the casual motion, halting his arm at the wrist. Startled, Gibbs reacted on instinct, wrapping his hand around Tony's wrist in turn, and twisting down, up and sideways simultaneously, so that further movement on Tony's part would risk distending the elbow or breaking the wrist. Realization hit a moment later; instantly, he let go, stepping backwards with hands out in calming gesture.

But DiNozzo reacted just as quickly upon release, striking out wildly with an elbow.

It caught Gibbs along the cheekbone, snapping his head sideways. Pain flared—not horrible, as the blow had been too erratic to do permanent damage, but enough to make him catch his breath.

The instant of contact, Tony had frozen in place. The older man looked up to see green eyes staring at him out of a face blanched paper white.

"Gibbs, I—Sorry. Sorry," Tony blurted, shoulders hunched.

And fled into the bathroom.

Gibbs just barely caught a glimpse of still-fading scarring alongside the morning's bruises before the door _slammed_ shut with enough force to hurt his eardrums.

The agent swore under his breath, an explosion of helpless fury, as the sound of running water roared into existence.

His fingers itched to break something. Instead, Gibbs settled for kicking his mattress, frustration raging like a wildfire. Could that have gone any worse? One step forward, two steps back...why was he even trying to listen to his gut on this one? Apparently, he'd have just as a high of a success rate if he flipped a coin!

The agent shut his eyes, willing himself to a place of calm.

Enough.

When his gut failed him, there was only one thing left to do.

Gibbs pulled out his cellphone, and hit speed dial four.

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**Chapter Notes**: Hi again, everyone! In recompense for my lengthy delay, I'll let you guys share a brief laugh at my expense. Did you notice that until this chapter, I never mentioned Tony collecting any shoes? 'Cause I totally forget I didn't let him take the time to put any on. **facepalm** So now I have this mental image of him strolling casually through the parking lot and all around NCIS and autopsy...completely barefoot. Which, evidently, is such a commonplace event that no one feels the need to comment? xD (Explanatory shoe banter to the rescue! LOL. )

A random note: Regrettably, although I have quite a bit of martial arts training, it is surprisingly difficult to describe movements that involve a lot of torque. Also, trying to perform them on yourself from an awkward angle because you need to _see_ the details of the grip? Ow. My arm is not pleased.

Finally...a couple of you asked if I would (or else threatened me to) extrapolate on how Tony met Abby. To which I say...yes, absolutely! Not only do I wish to avoid a horrible fate, but I've been planning that Abby and Tony reveal since near the start of a Question of Honor (so for over three years), and a Tony-Meets-Abby fic for just as long. It's next in the queue after this one. I'm looking forward to writing it, because Tony + Abby + robber + grocery store just equals _funny_.

**Thank you all so very much for your wonderful reviews!**


	6. Claw for Solid Ground

Chapter Warnings: Strong Language

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"_I feel just like I'm sinking_

_And I claw for solid ground_

_I'm pulled down by the undertow_

_Never thought I could feel so low_

_Oh, darkness, I feel like letting go_..."

—_Full of Grace_ by Sarah McLachlan

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The call only made it past the first ring.

"Hello, Jethro."

The smooth, precise voice came as more of a relief than Gibbs would ever let on. "Hi, Duck." He sank onto the edge of his bed, the mattress creaking absurdly as it settled. It occurred to him to be pleased that DiNozzo wasn't in earshot to make a crack about old bones, but his heart wasn't in it.

"I rather thought I would be hearing from you. How are things going?"

"Found a threatening note in Druckenbrod's mail, and sent it to Abby," Gibbs answered slowly. "Searched the house, but didn't find anything else. Blackadder didn't find anything, either."

Ducky made sympathetic noise. "That is regrettable, though we will hope morning and Abigail's toil will bring more success. But I think we might as well dispense with the notion that you're calling me to chat about a slow case at, oh, halfway to three o'clock in the morning."

Sometimes Ducky knew him too damn well. Gibbs rubbed a hand over his forehead, trying to figure out how to start. "Didn't mean to wake you, Duck."

"No matter; my mother's corgis did that job for you by graciously sounding the alarm about a nonexistent burglar. So, is he how you remember him?"

Even with the abrupt change of topic, Gibbs didn't pretend to need a clarification. "Didn't remember him being quite so annoying."

Ducky laughed softly on the other end, but to Gibbs's ear the joke fell flat.

Pause.

"I'm doing everything wrong, Duck," the agent confessed roughly, lowering his voice.

"Why do you say so?"

"I tried to _head slap_ a victim of assault. I come too close to him, and he freezes up; I compliment him, and he shuts down. Half the time he pretends like nothing happened in Baltimore, he's terrified to share a hotel room with me, and five minutes ago, he thought I was about to _hit _him!"

"Ah." The one word held volumes of meaning.

All of it still maddeningly abstruse to Gibbs.

" 'Ah'?" The agent repeated, a little acerbic.

"Jethro, do you desire my insight, or do you merely seek a sympathetic ear?"

A wryly raised brow, and equally wry tone. "I don't talk to just hear myself."

Ducky chuckled, the sound deep in his throat. "Unlike young DiNozzo, perhaps? No, indeed. No one would ever accuse you of such a thing. Then I can only counsel you that, whatever the proper method of dealing with our young man, it is not fair to berate yourself unduly over wounds that having nothing to do with you."

The words were blunt, but gentle—the ME's specialty. But he was wrong this time. "Except he doesn't act that way around anyone else." Then, the awful truth, because he couldn't hold it in— "He's scared of me, Duck."

The tone was thick with self-recrimination.

"Now, that I don't believe for an instant," Ducky retorted. "Really, Jethro. He's more relaxed around you than anyone I've seen him with, including his partner."

"You didn't see him with Abs." Gibbs was surprised at the rush of hurt he felt at admitting it. "Never seen him so expressive, except when he's BSing someone."

"Yes, well." No nonsense as always, Ducky didn't attempt to argue. "You'll permit me to note that Abigail is able to crack through even your crusty exterior—DiNozzo's defensive veneer is hardly beyond her grasp. Suffice it to say, she is a special case. I do not think it reasonable to take that interaction as a referendum on your relationship with the young man."

"He opened up more to you in five minutes than he has to me in a day!"

He felt embarrassed by the outburst instantly, but there was no taking it back.

Another pause. "Jethro." The word was kind, but thankfully not condescending, or Gibbs might have hung up then and there. "At the risk of sounding unduly self-congratulatory, I think I may point out that I am a special case as well. Further, I think I misspoke. Relaxed might not be the right word. A better phrase might be 'himself'—or trying to be."

Gibbs snorted, peeling off his watch one-handed and placing it on the nightstand. "Half the time he speaks he's trying to misdirect me."

"Yes, Jethro. _Yes._ Because, if I may be frank, I don't think young Anthony knows up from down at the moment. When he spoke to me, it was as a man too worn by the day's events to bother pretending to a stranger. When he talked to Abby, I imagine, it was as a man startled into a memory—when encounter someone from our past, it is often our first instinct to act as we were when we knew them. But with you—Tony is clearly fighting to be every inch the competent, wise-cracking, fifty-miles-a-minute detective that seems to be his preferred form for interacting with the world."

It held the ring of truth, but the agent didn't seen how this was supposed to be comforting. "Yeah. He doesn't trust me."

"He respects you! Can you not see the way he looks to you for approval? It is only that he is trying to be instantly healed from whatever traumas he is grappling with, because he mistakenly believes that you will not respect him if he isn't!"

Gibbs shook his head, more out of frustration than rebuttal. "It was different last time. In Baltimore he'd tell me what was bothering him when I cornered him! Now he just shuts down or gets angry, or lashes out. He hit me in the face tonight, because I was an idiot and I moved too fast."

Unexpectedly, the doctor chuckled.

"Not funny, Duck. He's mortified." And he'd been afraid. _Afraid._ DiNozzo was many things...but fearful?

A sigh. "No, I suppose it isn't, at that. Jethro—what happened to him?"

Ducky's aching, near boundless compassion—always felt, but seldom made obvious—threaded through the response. Gibbs closed his eyes against the golden glow of the hotel lamps.

_A blood-soaked body, still as death, chained to the wall and burning with fever._

The memory tasted like brine and anger.

"Not my story to tell."

So far, the ME had respected Gibbs's silence about the whole incident. The agent expected a repeat of the same.

As it turned out, Ducky had other ideas.

"Isn't it? You seem to have been intimately involved in whatever has happened to our detective."

_A broken man weeping, clinging to him only because there was no one else, and sense of injustice so acute that Gibbs wanted to destroy everyone responsible._

Ducky murmured something under his breath, inaudible to even Gibbs's foxlike hearing, before speaking again. "And, if I may be so bold...I'm not altogether certain you have dealt with it either." The even, relentless words were a sucker punch. "Perhaps if you showed DiNozzo that you have your own bruises, so to speak, he will follow your example. But I suspect that as long as he sees you avoiding—"

"—Not avoiding anything, Duck," Gibbs clipped out. "Just doing my damned job."

With a savage click, he hung up the phone, and tossed it on his bedside table.

Sleep did not come easily, even after DiNozzo's dark form crept into the other bed.

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Poached eggs, it turned out, tasted poor with a side of utter humiliation.

Tony shoveled one more spoonful of quivering yellow into his mouth before giving up utterly on the attempt. It was no use trying to force himself to eat when nausea swelled at the very thought of food. His body was reeling. He'd slept fitfully—his dreams switching between memories of fighting with his father and stupid dramas centering on him walking naked through classes at the Philly Police Academy— waking every hour or so to be suffused by sheer horror at the far more embarrassing reality that was his current existence.

At least he hadn't had any of his worst nightmares, but the thought was cold comfort.

Tony stared blindly at his plate, another fragment of him shriveling in remembrance. How could he have thought, even for an instant, that Gibbs would actually _strike _him? Not that it had been intellectual—just a glimpse of an upraised arm, and a flash of pure panic spurring his limbs to action. But then...he'd _hit_ Gibbs, elbowing him across the face. It was amazing the marine hadn't pounded him into the floor. But clearly, he was too pathetic to merit even that.

He shoved away his nearly untouched eggs almost violently, and grimaced as the movement stretched his sore shoulder. A nearby women, tapping rapidly on her phone, sent him a look half concerned, half speculative.

Great—he was attracting motherly stares from strangers. He _must_ look bad. Normally, Tony wouldn't be above capitalizing on the attention, but then, normally he didn't actually need it—just liked it.

A thought dawned sluggishly, enough to crush any remaining speck of happiness in him.

Maybe this _was_ his new normal.

It wasn't a new thought—it tugged at the edge of his consciousness in the slow-moving hours before the dawn—but the emotion that rose in his throat was still so choked it felt like poison. Under the weight of it, Tony found it difficult to remember to breath. A piercing longing to prove his fear false fought with a suffocating lack of understanding how to do anything of the sort. Slapping a tip on the table, Tony rose in a daze, seeing an eternity stretching out before him filled with flashbacks and memories, fear and shame. A lifetime of trying to be someone to be proud of, and of failing again and again, until he was so dulled he no longer even remembered what it was like to feel satisfaction when he looked in the mirror.

For a moment, the sense of bleakness was so dizzying that the hotel cafe seemed disjointed, an Escher landscape of shapes that paid no attention to the laws of the natural world. Tony's foot caught on the edge of his chair as he tried to step forward, and he tripped.

A hand steadied him, keeping him upright. "Whoa, dude, watch your step!"

Frank blue-hazel eyes, set over a tip-tilted nose and cheeks covered in a mad splash of orange freckles, floated into his field of vision.

"Geez, my mom calls _me_ a clumsy! She say I'd trip over my own feet if I ever remembered I had any." His "savior" was a slim teenager, with a knit cap pulled tight over his coppery hair. He inspected Tony, bold in his appraisal. "Wow. You look like shit. Are you, like, a drug addict or something?"

He looked impressed, like he rather hoped he'd actually encountered something so gritty.

The occurrence was so unexpected that a flash of amusement punctured through Tony's breathless misery, banishing it for now to the back of his mind. "No, I'm not," he answered flatly.

"Oh." The teen deflated, but only momentarily. "Say—what's your name?"

What was the harm in answering? "Tony."

"Huh. I'm Dillan. So...what are you doing here? See, I know everything that goes on in this town." The pride was evident in his voice. "It's because my dad owns a bunch of hotels here, and he hears all the news about everybody that comes through."

At that, Tony's investigative instinct overrode his astonishment at this unexpected conversation. "Really. Can you tell me how to get to a place called The Flopping Fish?"

Dillan grinned, seemingly delighted to be asked to share his wealth of knowledge. "Yeah, sure, dude. The Hopping Halibut, it's really called, but the locals all call it the Flopping Fish. Few streets from here. Left, then right, then left again, and down a little side street. Bed and breakfast kind of place. _We_ have better beds, though. I'd have said better breakfast, too, but I guess you didn't like the eggs."

"Tony prefers pizza," a familiar gruff voice said from over his shoulder. "Done chatting, DiNozzo?"

It took every ounce of grit in him, but Tony met those ice blue eyes straight on.

Gibbs looked...tired. And kind of pissed.

Tony's courage faded, replaced by embarrassment once more. "All done," the detective answered, looking away. "Thanks for the help, man."

"Any time, dude." The kid attempted a gang symbol, comical in contrast to his white suburbanite garb and demeanor, and meandered away.

Tony cleared his throat. "I got us directions." He risked a glance at Gibbs, only to register the shadow of a bruise along the older man's cheekbone.

Oh, holy hell.

Why didn't he just slather himself in bacon grease and throw himself in the lion's den? It might lead to an excruciating death, but at least it would be over quickly.

Unlike a day spend dying of shame under Gibbs's inscrutable gaze.

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The Hopping Halibut was a tacky, overly decorated affair, with so many fake fish nailed into the walls that Tony was tempted to pretend he was in an aquarium.

Gibbs, of course, would be the shark.

Whether _he_ was shark bait or not remained to be determined.

"How can I help you two?" A hefty man, stomach bulging behind a white apron resplendent in applique lobsters, waved to them from the counter. "Care for some shrimp scampi—today's special—or maybe some poached trout?"

Gibbs flashed his badge. "Special Agent Gibbs. DiNozzo. NCIS. We have some questions for you."

The man's bushy eyebrows rose, wrinkling his broad forehead. "Are you cops?"

"Naval Criminal Investigative Services," Tony interjected, leaning on the counter with a conspiratorial smile. "They'd have sent regular cops, but man, you've got a lot of fish in here. Tell me, is business going swimmingly?"

The man blinked, and seemed to decide that in the face of this individual, even the stony-faced Gibbs was a more comfortable bet. "Alright. Happy to help. What can I do for you?"

"We'd like information on this man." Gibbs presented a snapshot of a living Druckenbrod. "Heard he comes here sometimes."

"Yeah, I know that guy! Pete. He comes in during the night shift, every weeknight, like clockwork. Come to think of it, though, I don't think I saw him last night. Is he in some kind of trouble?"

Gibbs ignored that. "What can you tell us about him?"

Apparently not curious enough to pursue it, the man just raised his hands in a helpless sort of gesture. "Not much. Quiet sort of fellow, keeps to himself a lot. Always orders the salmon soufflé. Has some sort of accent. You're in luck, though—we have a waitress from the night shift in this morning. Hey, Joelle!"

A young woman, rectangular face framed by flat-ironed dark maroon hair, glanced up from wiping down a table. Several facial piercing were evident from here—a sparkle at her lip, a metal stud in her brow; yellow gold looping through her left nostril. "Yeah, Nate?"

"Take five. There're some cops here who want to know about a patron."

Shrugging, Joelle tossed her rag on the table and sauntered over.

She wasn't really his type, but Tony was an equal opportunity appreciator of women. He beamed at her, pouring every ounce of admiring charm into the expression.

To his satisfaction, she blushed. Pale fingers reached up to brush her hair sideways—a nervous gesture. "What can I do for you guys?"

Tony leaned forward, presenting the picture once more, and holding eye contact for a second longer than felt natural. Her eyes gleamed a pretty, pale green, ringed with surprisingly long, straight eyelashes. "Is there anything you can tell us about this man?"

Joelle smiled at him, and a dimple flared into existence in her cheek. "Yeah. That's Mr. Druckenbrod. He eats here most weeknights. He always gets the same thing, and lingers until closing time reading and flirting with the waitresses in his section." She frowned, then. "I did notice something odd, I guess maybe the night before last? He seemed really down, and one time I looked over," she dropped her voice, "I swear he was crying."

"Crying," Tony repeated doubtfully, shooting a puzzled glance at Gibbs. "Any idea why?"

She shook her head. "No idea. One of our girls called in sick unexpectedly, so we were really busy that night. He didn't really seem like he wanted company anyway, you know?"

"Gotcha." Tony smiled at her again. She had nice cheekbones, for all that her severe hairstyle did its best to shield them. "Well, thank you very much for your time, Joelle."

At a nod from Gibbs, they turned to go, but slim fingers caught his hand. A scrap of paper pressed into his palm. "Call me," Joelle whispered, and ducked away, cheeks flaring red.

Grinning, Tony followed Gibbs out into the blazing sunshine.

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If yesterday had seemed hot, today was an inferno. Waves of heat sizzled off the pavement, threatening to cook their toes in their shoes. Tony, who'd bought a zippered sweatshirt at the hotel gift shop in favor of never having to wear Gibbs's t-shirt again, was nearly baking.

Heat, though, hadn't stilled his tongue—especially since every glance at Gibbs's face made his nerves jolt unpleasantly. Worse, the agent seemed even more taciturn and granite-faced than usual...and Tony was pretty certain he'd spotted an actual scowl once or twice when the silence stretched on too long.

So the younger man found his mouth galloping along with his thoughts, as though his tongue had been caught on a treadmill.

"So about a week ago judging by the postmark, our victim—that _nobody_ seems to know anything substantial about—gets a piece of mail from an unidentified person, warning 'remember what I said.' Fast forward to Wednesday night, and he's crying in his favorite restaurant, which doesn't seem much like a business. A few hours later he's beaten to death by a group of men, and meanwhile the only suspicious information we can seem to find on him is that he was probably smuggling diamonds. He was—again, only _probably_—killed by baseball bats, which are too common to give us any lead. What are we missing? Where's the connection?"

Gibbs didn't reply, simply unlocking the car.

Tony waited, his hand on the door. "Where are we going? Back to NCIS?"

"Nope." A lengthy pause, as though the effort of even that response had nearly cost him his life force. "Crime scene."

"Why? You think they missed something?"

At that, Gibbs smiled thinly, for the first time that day. "Nah. Just following my gut."

And that was the last word the marine spoke until they reached their destination.

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For some reason, they parked a few blocks away from the actual crime scene. Tony wasn't in the mood to question why, though knowing Gibbs, there was a reason. They strolled into a narrow alleyway, heading gradually in the direction of the scene.

The closeness of the worn-down buildings blocked the pounding angle of the sun instantly, plunging them into something like cool.

The shade should have been welcoming, but the hairs on the back of Tony's neck rose. His hand found the gun in its holster by instinct, but Gibbs seemed calm enough. They kept on walking.

Tony's eyes darted back and forth, his breathing quickening automatically at the sight of the numerous wooden crates.

Unbidden, memory surged. The last time he'd been in an alleyway like this, he'd been running for his life, Macaluso's thugs surrounding him from all angles. In an instant their arms would be around his neck, choking him into submission...

_Don't think about that. _The detective, swallowed, shook his head as though to dispel a fly, and kept on walking, following Gibbs through the slightly wider alleyway that led to the actual crime scene. _Keep it together, damn it. You can handle an alleyway._

The older man was walking surprisingly quickly, intent on his purpose. Tony put all his focus on catching up, trying to ignore the way the walls pressed in on him.

One step, two steps. His feet slowed without his permission. Nearby—perhaps a few streets away—a man bellowed angrily. The cloying scent of dumpsters, mingled with a hint of a old vomit and sweat, rose to meet his nose..

It was the smell, more than anything, that finally got him.

Tony stumbled, knees going weak, and caught himself one handed against a wall. He had to get out of here. His fingers scrabbled against the rough brick, trying and failing to find a grip. A sheet of gray began to slide in front of his eyes.

"_Tony_."

That normally calm voice, with its uncharacteristic note of dismay, cut through his stupor, snapping him back to reality. Tony stumbled upright, away from the hands that tried to touch him, hold him. Trap him. They always left him bleeding in the end. "I'm fine," he snapped, wiping his forehead with a shaky sleeve.

"DiNozzo!" Gibbs barked, brows lowering with all the pending thunder of a storm cloud.

"What?" An answering wellspring of rage, dark and coiling, swelled at the edge of Tony's control. He couldn't even handle an alleyway, and to be seen in his weakness by _Gibbs_... "Huh? Spit it out," the detective snarled, at the edge of his endurance. "Never took you to be one to mince words."

Gibbs's mouth thinned to near invisibility, a terrifying sign to anyone with half a brain. "Why don't you use that damned tongue and tell me why you just almost passed out?"

"Why?" Tony ground out, standing upright despite the tiny yellow-silver dots that still floated in his vision. "Why the hell does it matter that I can't stand to be in an alleyway? It's just one more_ fucking_ way for me to screw up."

Gibbs's voice softened. A foolish man would have thought it calm. Tony saw it for what it was—something akin to menace. "Doesn't sound 'fine' to me."

"So what?" A distant part of the younger man was watching the unfolding interaction in horror, but the rest of him was too furious to care. "Walk away. Let me figure it out. It's what we're both good at, isn't it?"

The barbed words flew out of his mouth, an explosion of misery. In counter, the blue eyes grew glacial enough to spawn ice crystals. But Tony was buoyed up by too much frenetic anger to back down. They glared at each other, neither willing to break the stare down.

"Shit, man—it's that cop," a voice whispered to Tony's left.

He spun on his heel, to find two sets of dark eyes watching them from behind a crate.

Instantly, the lurkers took off, swearing.

Tony burst after them without hesitation. "NCIS," Gibbs bellowed behind him.

The heavy _thud-thud_ of pounding feet; the burning of muscles pushed to speed. The intensity of the chase kicked Tony's already amped adrenaline into high gear. He found himself grinning almost maniacally as he ran, curving to the right to get in front of the hooded figures. He loved this—had always loved this. It was what had made him good at football—the ability to think on his feet and the athleticism that let him win by mere determination.

The two men were sticking together. That was stupid. Tony put on a burst of speed, counting, without conscious thought, on Gibbs to "herd" them towards him.

There! Tony took a flying leap and crashed into the frontrunner, slamming him into the gravel and forcing the second man to slow his pace or trip on them both. By then it was too late.

The second man came crashing to the ground, a silver-haired marine pinning him with rough arms.

A brief wrestling match, and Tony's man stopped fighting. The detective snapped the cuffs on in a rasp of metal, and looked across at his companion as he tried to slow his heaving lungs.

Gibbs was grinning savagely at him, his expression a mirror image of the one Tony suspected his own face sported. For a moment, with their shared satisfaction and perfect teamwork a near tangible force between them, everything felt as it should be.

Then reality shifted, bringing with it remembrance of their argument.

"Let's get them in the car," Gibbs ordered coolly.

"On it," Tony replied, matching frost for frost.

In utter silence, they marched back to the parking spot.

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Author's Note: There you go; a quick update! Just so you all aren't let down, this story is actually starting to approach its end. Now, what _exactly_ that means remains to be seen—I know what's left in the plot, but fully fleshed out, my stories are always longer than I initially expect. So, who knows. But in case you're expecting another twenty-chapter story, I'm going to get the disappointment over now. ;)

Unexpected writing triumph of the day: Someone I know actually wrote a ten-page piece inspired by one of my original short stories. :D I haven't read it yet...but gosh darn, that's flattering.


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